


Rise Where You Are

by orphan_account



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Angst, F/M, Fluff, Historical Inaccuracy, Love/Hate, M/M, Pining, Prince Louis, They don't speak in old english cause who has the time, louis' attitude isn't entirely justifiable forgive me
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-08
Updated: 2016-04-28
Packaged: 2018-04-08 08:58:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 49,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4298649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If asked, Harry would definitely say that he has lived a good life so far. Sure, he doesn't always have the luxury of a filled belly at the end of every day, and maybe not having thick blankets causes the chills induced by the evening cold breeze, but it's a good life. Until, of course, his sister falls ill. With little to no value to his name, The Claror Palace becomes his saving grace. </p><p>How he unfortunately managed to piss off the crown prince is unbeknownst to him. All he hopes for is to be able to keep his head attached to the rest of his body. </p><p>(Also, possibly, to kiss the prince a little.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. i.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally entitled I've Been Waiting For the Sun to Rise. I changed it cause I thought it was a mouthful. Anyway, the titles, both the original and the revised, are from Broods' Superstar. 
> 
> This is basically just me putting my daydreams into a fic. Everyone needs a bit of Royal Love/Hate in their lives! This has no beta and if ever you wanna do it you could hit me up here: _[Tumblr!](http://www.royalarrie.tumblr.com)_
> 
> This has loads of historical inaccuracies, I'm already warning you all lol. And god, that atrocious summary whaaat. I am terrible at them, it's such a joke. Give it a chance anyway? :)
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** I do not know nor own any of the One Directions boys. This is purely fiction and no money is being made from this.
> 
> With that being said, do enjoy and tell me what you think :)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A need, an answer, and trouble - all in one.

I'll never get this feeling out of my head and I'll never wanna be the one you forget.

_-L.A.F. Broods_

_~*~_

It was drizzling the day the announcement was released. Dark, ominous clouds covered the skies of mainland Solbourne, all of its inhabitants in a glazed and happy state caused by the unusual, but welcomed downpour in the ordinarily humid kingdom. The capital was bustling as per usual, the energy humming in the streets as people kept on with their business even with the addition of the slight rain. There were merchants screaming, trying to attract buyers with the deep exaggerations of their products; people haggling their best to cut off even the smallest expenses; mothers rushing whilst trying to cover their children from the rain, and workers slaving off in nearby shops.

Amongst the throng of people hustling about, there stood Harry tunic dirty and damp, brows scrunched as he heaved the last sack of flour from the delivery carriage over onto his shoulder, hurrying to get inside the bakery. 

The familiar warmth and smell of his workplace envelops him immediately as he gingerly drops the flour beside the counter. The bakery was, by all means, not the grandest of establishments in the capital. It had its mouse holes, chipping grey paint, and dusty wooden shelves adorning its compact four corners, but over the years, Harry's made it feel like home. It's here where everything is bittersweet for him; grueling manual labor, but every pastry still laced with comfort and familiarity.

He hurriedly wipes his hands on the apron fastened around his waist, grabs a small loaf of bread from the tabletop, and quickly walks back out the entrance and towards the carriage, one hand covering the bread from the rain. “Thanks for the early delivery, Ed,” Harry says as he hands the usual on-the-house loaf to the ginger headed man sitting atop the carriage. “God only knows what Simon would have made me do if I hadn’t started on the next batch of bread.”

“Bloody menace he is, isn’t he?” Ed says, taking a bite of his food. He hurriedly chews and swallows without savoring the taste, eating for the sake of eating. “You know, Haz, you should really just leave this forsaken place. Go and find a new job, mate. Here you are slaving off and your bloody master doesn’t even pay you half the money that you deserve.”

Harry nods solemnly, and doesn’t utter anything for a while. Of course he knows. He knows bloody well how he deserves to have more than just 5 silver pieces on the palm of his hand at the end of every month, knows how his family needs more than that to survive. He knows how Simon, the avaricious owner of the bakery, gives out detrimentally unfair treatment to his employees, gains a lot of gold from their hard work, and hardly even glances at how his said employees don’t make enough for a living. Harry knows all of this very well, the strain in his biceps and legs from too much work tale telling enough.

To Harry’s credit though, he has been trying. He’s been job searching for the last month, opting out of eating dinner with his mum and sister just to be able to ask around taverns, blacksmith shops and the like if they needed an extra helping hand. He even went to a brothel to ask if they needed anyone to handle their money whilst the women proceeded with their jobs, for heaven's sake. Yet, still, to no avail. It seems like everywhere else is full, the capital of Solbourne populated enough to provide businesses with adequate manpower.

He tells Ed as much, grimacing as he sees the look of pity that the other man poorly tries to conceal. By this time, the loaf of bread is gone from Ed's hand, the only visible proof that it was there being the crumbs around the man's mouth. Judging by the way Ed's trying to collect even those, He assumes it wasn't enough to fully satisfy the other man’s stomach.

Harry knows about hunger all too well.

“I’m sorry bout that, mate. Tell you what, once I hear of anything, I’ll come tell you right away, yeah?” The man says, offering a kind smile.

Throughout Harry’s long 7 years of stay in Simon’s bakery, Ed has consistently been the delivery man who comes by twice a week, transporting all the ingredients the shop needs to make their products. He enjoys Ed’s company plenty, enough to even say that he’s one of Harry’s greatest, if not the best of, friends. The ginger headed man is kind in a sort of passively not evident way, funny in just the style Harry gets on with, and carefree enough that Harry is able to forget about his burdens whenever he’s chatting with the man.

“That’s great, mate. Thank you, really,” Harry says, grinning as Ed salutes him with his bread crumbed laced hand.

“Gotta go, though, Hazza. Time to who's Taylor singing about today,” the red head acclaims with a laugh, kicking his heel and holding the reigns as his beloved horse (which Ed amorously named dominoes) started to move. “See you next week!”

Harry only snorts at this, shaking his head fondly. He watches the old wooden carriage move for a while, the clanking of its wheels on the stone floor melding with the noise that surrounds him. He was just about to turn back inside the bakery, thinking about how his hands would strain from the intense molding and mixing he would soon be doing when the blaring sound came trembling in, drowning out all the other racket of the town square.

The clank of the horses’ hooves as they galloped towards the center rendered everyone to a standstill. Harry, in front of the bakery’s doors, which was placed smack in the middle of the square, watches the whole scene.

The mass of people that loitered about parted immediately to let the men sitting atop the horses pass, hundreds of eyes all following the banners that two of the three pristinely uniformed men were holding up.

“The royal banners,” Harry whispers in awe. He hears the same noting from the other people surrounding him, each time an announcement from the palace came, everyone present would whisper enthusiastically, excited glances thrown around at the prospect of news coming from the beloved royal family.

He stares at the beautiful banner only a few meters away from him, carefully looks at the large golden sun emblazoned in the middle of the sea, blue background, inscriptions of _power, wealth, radiance_ surrounding the shimmering flaxen sun.

Harry startles from his trance as one of the men blows the trumpet in his hand, everyone else bristling as the man in the middle of the other two clears his throat and unfolds the scroll in his hand.

“Hear ye, hear ye! A royal announcement from the House Tomlinson, written by her royal highness Queen Johannah herself,” the herald shouts, loud and clear. Audible gasps are heard all throughout the mass of people already gathered around the three men; rarely is it that it would be the queen herself who would write the announcement to be proclaimed around the whole kingdom. Understandably, this news only makes the crowd more eager than they were before.

“To the good and proud people of Solbourne,” the man continues, “it is with delight and pleasure that the House of Tomlinson declare the need for new servicemen and women inside the Claror palace. It has come to the notice of the crown that the majority of the palace’s current service people, although still ever so diligent and industrious, have become of the age to retire and lay down their limbs to rest. The palace then is holding an open call for the people of Solbourne interested in serving the crown furthermore. To all those that holds this true, please come forward at the Claror palace gates early on Monday of the week after for appraisal. Our deepest merits be sent byword. Good day to those of good heart!”

One of the men blows the trumpet again and before Harry even knows it, the horses are galloping away, leaving only the silence that ensues and the dust that riffles through the air proof that they were ever present.

Harry was in awe and was completely spellbound. This kind of thing would be a trademark House of Tomlinson act simply because it was _such a kind deed_. The family was always known to be fair hearted, each reigning king or queen adding a flourish of a good legacy behind them.

Just a few years back, the current Queen, her highness Johannah, banished and banned slavery throughout the whole kingdom. She said that she could not withstand how some of her people suffered gravely each and every day with hard labor to be paid back only with cruelty by their masters. The queen declared that fair wages and freedom should only be just and as long as it is the House of Tomlinson in reign, never will slavery see the light of day again. To say that most of the nobility were disheartened in their support for the Queen because of this would be an extreme understatement – they were ghastly outraged. Yet, the Queen was undeterred and was adamant about her newly declared law. Now, just a few years past, and all were in harmony, like the Queen herself stated the kingdom should and would be.

The people of Solbourne loved the Tomlinsons with a passion. They see their royals as fair and just, kind and warm, always there when the people of the nation were in need. They were the cherished protectors of the realm and this declaration, the act of opening palace gates for anyone worthy enough to work for the crown, would do nothing but add to the public’s affection. Everyone knew that the service people inside the Claror palace are honorable, trained inside the castle walls to be almost as refined as the nobilities they, themselves, serve. They, of course, needed to be in the utmost perfection, is the thing. The handmaidens and squires of the aristocrats were handpicked in this group. Most of these people were even bred to be where they are now, almost all of them sons and daughters of previous service people. And for a commoner, for a mere peasant to be given a chance to garner such an honorable life well, Harry was rightfully in awe.

To add to the marvelous things that would be given to anyone who would be lucky enough to be accepted by the palace, it is a widely known fact that servicemen and women received a huge amount at the end of every month in payment for their aid and assistance to the crown. There was even a rumor that spread throughout the whole kingdom once that those of service garnered 15 gold pieces each month. 15 gold pieces would be enough to not only sustain Harry’s family, but also be given extra luxuries for more than half a year!

And—of course Harry wants to go. He really, really does. He wants to march right up to the palace gates come Monday morning, clad in his finest (which is not much, but something about lemons and lemonade, really) and become a serviceman, hopefully a squire or even just the stable boy, it would be a dream come true. It used to only be that – a dream. Something he would think of in passing, while kneading some dough or feeding their family horse at home. He would think about the intricacies of the palace, how beautiful it would be, how beautiful it surely is; he's dreamt of holding his fingers up and letting his hand glide through the fine indoor walls of the castle, feeling the bumps and edges of the décor. Letting his eyes absorb everything, breathing in the well-scented aroma of nothing but beauty, aristocracy, wealth, power, royalty when he was only used to so little well—it was his dream.

 And now, for it to be a sudden possibility, well that’s something so hard, so very difficult to all take in. He could feel the excitement bubbling in his stomach, his veins thrumming with the prospect of actually being able to live his dream. It was amazing, felt like he could float from the feeling.

 But of course, it had to come all crashing down. With a sudden jolt, he remembers that service people were meant to live inside the castle grounds. They were allowed to leave, of course, but only with express permission from someone in authority and only ever once a month. Everyone knew this, and by the looks of all of the people’s faces surrounding Harry, they were thinking about that little fact too.

He could never leave his family, is the thing. They need him here, his mum and Gemma. They were a unit, something that moved well and worked even better together. Sure, they weren’t blessed with a title or that much money, but even when they struggled to make ends meet every month, they were happy and content together. _What is a dream if you don’t have those you love and hold close to your heart to live it with_ , Harry thought.

So, no, then. He knew where he belonged and though it is not where he longed to be, it was where he was needed.

He realizes that he’s been standing outside the bakery with his mouth agape for quite some time now that a few children by the apothecary were already giggling, having caught the sight of him. He pats his head lightly and feels it damp with the accumulated drizzle because of how long he stood there. With a sigh, Harry ignores the muffled murmurs around him; turns around and heads back to work, back to where he is needed, trying his best to not forget where he belongs.

~*~ 

The sun has almost set in the horizon, skies already bleeding of orange and pink hues by the time Harry gets home. The walk back from the bakery is not that long, only a short 15 minutes from where Harry’s family reside, yet by the time he is opening the door to the house, he feels as if it’s been hours since he exited the bakery. His limbs ache from the load he carried earlier in the morning, hands painfully throbbing with all the croissants and loaves of bread he prepared and kneaded within the day. 

He’s ready to climb up the stairs of their quaint house and promptly fall asleep on his not so comfortable straw stuffed mattress, planning to not even bother with supper when he sees his mum scramble down the steps, harried expression plastered on her face. 

“Oh, Harry dear, it’s—thank goodness you’re home! I would’ve come to the bakery and get you but I couldn’t leave Gemma alone. I didn’t know what to do and I’m so glad you’re home, H,” all of this came tumbling out of Harry’s mother’s mouth. Anne was immediately in her son’s arms after her spiel, shoulders shaking as she cried, sobs echoing in the small house. 

 “Mum? What’s wrong? Why are you crying? Please tell me what’s wrong, Mum,” Harry said as he wrapped his arms around his mother tightly, worry etched on his face. _What does she mean she couldn’t leave Gemma alone?_ Harry thought. _She’s old enough._

Anne slowly pries herself out of her son’s grasp, she looks at Harry’s concerned eyes and takes his face in her cold hands. “She’s sick, love,” Anne whispers, tears freefalling from her eyes. “She’s sick and we can’t afford to pay a Healer, Harry. We have no money, I don’t know what to do! I have no idea. She collapsed this morning after you left for work and she’s burning up and oh dear—,” Anne stops midsentence, not being able to hold back her sniffles long enough to continue. 

Harry feels cold terror tingle up in his spine, slowly reaching and devouring every part of his body. He feels his hands shake around his mother who buried herself on his chest again. He can’t lose Gemma, _no_ , he won’t be able to function. It was only the three of them left, the three of them against the world ever since his father abandoned them. 

His mind was racing and reeling, searching for all the possible options there were just to be able to save his sister’s life. They could ask money from Simon, Harry would even be willing to work for free if he agreed. If not, then maybe even from Ed, although, the fact that his friend might not even have the money to lend comes to the forefront of his mind. Maybe they could look for a kind healer who would be willing to wait just a few more months for his payment. _Maybe, maybe, maybe_. There has got to be a way to find the money: the gold pieces that they needed but dreadfully didn’t have. 

He hears a louder sob echo around the room and it takes him a few moments to realize that it came from his own mouth, his thoughts scattered all over the place and mind unfocused. Harry unlatches his arms around his mother, bringing his hands to his face and immediately feeling them become wet from tears streaming from his eyes. 

He couldn’t lose Gemma. He was willing to do just about _anything_. 

He stills, a thought occurring to him. All of a sudden, he knows just what to do.

~*~

In the early hours of Monday the week after, Harry trudges up the familiar path of the bakery, the note he has written for Simon regarding the recent turn of events already clasped in his hand. It unsurprisingly feels like freedom.

He doesn’t expect to find Simon once he gets inside the warm bakery since the owner ever only was present when he was collecting the shop’s income. He leaves the note on the working top, the one he was very well acquainted with after seven long years of kneading dough on top of it. He places an old and stale loaf of bread by one of the notes sides so it won’t go flying off of the table. He hopes Simon reads it soon, hopes he feels even the smallest hints of regret at not being a compassionate enough employer. He hopes.

As he looks around the small bakery, he feels a pang in his heart. Harry could proudly admit that he never liked Simon, never held even the slightest bit of affection for the old man, but the bakery is a whole new other thing entirely. It felt like a home to Harry. It was all so familiar, all the things he did here to pass the time when no one was buying their loaves of bread coming forefront in Harry’s mind. He knew the creaks of the floorboards, the wobbles of the tables —even the mouse houses he could locate with eyes closed.

He thinks of Ed and remembers the look the other man gave him when Harry stated that he’d be applying to become a palace serviceman. It was quite possibly the greatest amount of affection Harry had seen present on Ed’s face in the whole course of their friendship. After Harry told him all the sordid details of why he was going to go for it, Ed merely nodded at him and gave him the _look_ , pulled him into the tightest hug and clapped his back. “Do what you got to do, man. Can’t say I won’t miss you, though.”

 To say Harry cried from just that would be embarrassing so he won’t say it. (But he did. He so totally cried just from that.)

He promised Ed that he’d make time in his once a month of visit to find him, maybe to get drinks at the pub Jade works at to see what happened between her and Ashton or visit Taylor while she was tailoring. Harry tried to convey in his tone of voice how thankful he was for Ed’s friendship in the past seven years, how he would miss the man’s familiarity and warmth. With the way Ed ruffles his hair before they part ways, Harry thinks the message was sent across.                                                                                                    

Harry exits the bakery for one last time, tries to squash the bubbling nostalgia already erupting in his gut and moves towards the castle’s direction. He’s never frequented the castle gates that much before solely because he fears that the allure might get to him. He’s scared it might make him do something crazy like climb the stonewalls just to get a peek of the palace’s marvelous interior and how those people inside led their wonderful lives. Now that he’s heading purposely towards the grand gates because he has to go inside and enter, though, he feels nothing but dread in his stomach.

He never knew it would feel this bittersweet to have a chance to get that one thing you wanted and thought you could never have. He feels so confused, the reason he’s reaching his dreams a reason he never wanted to have.

_Funny how these things work._

As the towers of the castle appear in Harry’s line of vision, Harry’s dread turns into nerves, grave anxiety blooming in his chest.

_What if they don’t choose me? What would happen to Gemma, to mum?_

His mother had already found a healer who’s willing to wait until the end of the month until Harry gets his first pay. Granted, the healer did want an increase in the amount that would be given to him but Harry thinks that’s only fair. Although it was extremely foolish of him and Anne to acquire the help of a healer without the guarantee that the palace would accept Harry as a serviceman, it was a risk they just had to take. A good thing too, since the healer told them that a minute later, Gemma’s life could have been taken ruthlessly from her.

Just a week after the healer had paid Gemma a few visits and she’s gotten ultimately better already. Her fever’s gone down, the ache in her stomach subsiding. She questioned Harry and Anne, of course; asked how they were able to afford a healer when they can barely afford three full meals a day. When Harry shyly answered her, Gemma was positively mortified.

“Oh no, Harry! You couldn’t have possibly?” Gemma said, her eyes wide.

“It’s fine, Gem,” Harry replied. “I would’ve done a lot more for you and for mum, you know that. Besides, you always knew how much the palace life fascinated me.”

“I know that! Always going on about it since you were young, H,” Gemma huffs, rolling her eyes. After a while though, she loses her cheeky demeanor and adapts a sad one, her lips turned down into a frown. She casts her eyes down her lap, head and torso propped up on a few pillows while she lounges on her bed. She takes Harry’s hand and clutches them tight. “I’m your big sister, Harry. It should be _me_ taking care of _you_. Not the other way around,” she whispers.

Harry’s brows furrow as he quickly rises where he was sitting on the floor and lift his body onto Gemma’s bed, wrapping his arms around his still weak sister. “Gem, I’d do anything for you and mum. This is nothing. _Absolutely_ nothing, yeah? I’m glad that I get the chance to take care of you and I’m just glad you’re okay. It’s okay, yeah?”

He feels Gemma nod, her head on his shoulder, and he feels content right where he is, then and there.

The memory sits in his heart serving as one of the reasons why he keeps on going, walking towards where he has to be and not turning back. This is what he wanted, he reminds himself as he finally reaches the palace gates.

He knew that many were interested to become a palace service person but he never thought it was _this_  many. People were _everywhere_. Literally. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen the gates with this many people scattered around before. Young and old alike are lined up near the entrance, all of them wanting to be accepted, all of them clamoring to be part of the palace staff.

Harry can’t say that this doesn’t add to his dwindling hope of being chosen but still, he pushes through and walks towards the end of the long line, nerves increasing as he continuously progresses forward. As it turns out, there is a group of people by the gates who are in charge of assessing who gets to become a palace serviceman or woman. They simply ask the current person a few questions, scribbles something at some parchment, and asks for the next person to come forward. All those who are done with the process simply remain at the sides, bubbling with anticipation. 

The members of the group are all clad in shining silver armor and Harry only realizes that these people are _knights_  when he’s almost close to being called forward for his appraisal. They are knights, holy fuck. _Knights_ , who are trained and honored by the whole kingdom for their acts of strength and valor, would be responsible whether or not Harry would reach his dream; At the middle of the knights’ chest pieces sit a huge sun, the symbol of Solbourne, proudly showing to everyone to what country they fight for.

At a certain point in Harry’s life, he wanted to become a shining knight in armor. Something about the bravery and strength these people presented beckoning Harry over. Yet, as much as he did crave to, it proved as an impossibility when he recognized the presence of his two left feet and his utter clumsiness. He wouldn’t have been able to fight for his life.

 _Eh, I would have at least looked good in that armor,_  he thinks.

Harry snaps from his reverie and shakes from nerves as he sees that he’s slowly coming to the front, sees a knight with many pieces of parchment in his one hand, a quill on the other jotting down something on the parchment as a quivering woman stands before him. A squire is beside the said knight, holding the ink bottle as his master continues to write down information. 

The knight _would_  look scary dressed in his armor but his kind eyes and puppy like face diminishes the dark aura that one might think a knight of his tall stature must possess. Instead of looking rugged and callous, the knight only looks nothing short of stressed and frazzled as he assesses a person after another. Harry observes as he finishes writing down and smiles at the woman in front of him, close enough to hear the knight. “You’ve been great, thank you, Ma’am. If you would just stay there and wait for a while that would be great,” the knight says to the woman as he points to the area where people are congregated, waiting for the Solbourne Knight’s decisions. The puppy-faced man in armor looks at his squire meaningfully and immediately, the squire shouts a, “Next!”

Only, it’s _him_ , it’s Harry who is next.

His legs feel like pudding as he walks over in front of the kind knight, he can feel how his heart thudding a million times a minute, can feel his breathing getting labored as he waits for the man opposite him to start asking questions.

“Hey there,” said the knight. “I’m Sir Liam, a knight of the proud Solbourne. I’ll just be asking you a few questions, that okay?”

“Y-yeah. It’s great. Good. Yeah,” Harry stutters and he thinks  _shit_.

 Liam laughs at this and gives him a kind smile, “No need to be nervous. So, first question. What’s your full name?”

 That Harry could at least answer without stuttering. “It’s Harry Edward Styles, Sir.”

“How old are you then, Harry?” Liam asks while he writes down something on the parchment.

“20, sir.”

“Hmm," Liam hums thoughtfully. "Tell me a few things about you. Sell yourself out a little, why should the palace let you in inside it's walls? why should you become a serviceman?”

“Uhhh well, I worked at a bakery,” Harry says, voice slightly shaking. He could hear how gravelly his voice was so he cleared his throat a little before continuing. “So I’m great at baking and cooking in general. And, uhh, I guess I’m pretty strong too since I carry around the sacks of ingredients to and fro places. I could clean well, as well. I keep our house and the bakery tidy, so yeah.”

Damn, he should have put more thought into this. 

“That’s good, Harry,” Liam says, jotting something down his parchment and smiling at Harry. “That’s all actually, I have to ask you your skills next but since you already told me, I think there’s no need.”

“Uhm, so that’s it?” Harry asks, surprised at how short the questioning actually was.

“Yep!” Answered Liam. “You can go over there and just wait for the decisions. Won’t be long now since you’re one of the last ones in line. Thank you!”

Harry nods and sends a smile towards Liam as he starts shuffling to where the kind knight pointed. As he ambled over, he looked around and saw that there were only a few more people left waiting in line. Two other knights came up to help Liam with the interview during the course of Harry’s and this caused the once long line to disperse into, instead, three.

He shoves his hands down his pockets and sits down on a wooden plank on the floor, simply planning on watching the people tittering around him as he waited. He felt something graze his right hand inside his pockets though, and grasping it fully, he pulled his hand out to see a silver locket on the palm of his hand.

He gasped as he saw what it was, an oblong thing, clear silver shimmering under the sun’s rays. It had an engraved H.S. on top and once he opened it, he felt a tear come out of his eyes as he immediately knew who it came from. Inside the locket, a small folded up piece of parchment was tucked in. Harry plied it opened cautiously, careful not to tear the parchment in any way. He mentally sends a thanks to Simon for teaching him how to read and write so that he could take inventory in the bakery. There _was_  something Simon’s useful for, who knew.

After Simon taught him basic literacy, he immediately did his best to master it, wanting to share this skill that only the nobilities, aristocrats and some lucky people were able to have to his family. He was glad right then that he was successful in doing so, since it wouldn’t have been possible for his mother and sister to surprise him with a little letter inside the locket, had he not.

 _H_ , it read, _we couldn’t thank you enough for doing this for us. We want you to know how proud we are of you. We love you, baby, and we’ll miss you every single day. We’ll always be waiting around for that once a month when you get to come home, love. Hope you’d farewell and please take care of yourself._

_Love,_

_Mum and Gemma._  

Harry feels his heart constrict after reading the heartfelt albeit short letter. He too would miss his family so much. Nothing ever compared to how close they were — tight knit and loving. He’s going to miss every single thing about waking up in their old, quaint house, from grumpy Gemma’s painful morning shoves to his mum’s sheepish smile as she offers him only a small piece of bread for breakfast. It was simple but it was effective, how they worked together. He tried not to mull over things like this, tried to condition his heart to be a bit stronger than it is. Yet, being away from the people that one loves with every fiber of their being, it proves to be difficult.

Luckily for Harry, a trumpet is blown, sound loud and clear, just like how it was when the announcement was proclaimed in town. It serves as a distraction to his clenching heart and he looks up to see the same herald from a week ago climb up a set of steps just to be above everyone else, a scroll held between his fingers. Like before, he clears his throat before unfolding the scroll and reading out what’s written on it.

“To the good and proud people of Solbourne,” He begins. “It is a pleasure to see that so many are loyal enough to the crown as to want to proceed and dedicate their lives serving the House Tomlinson. Be that as it may, due to the limited capacity of the palace to hold service people, only fifty of the most suitable ones today would be taken in. The crown hopes that it would be understood and not taken to heart if your name is not called out from the list. The House Tomlinson sends their deepest gratitude to everyone present today, accepted or not. Now, to begin the roll call!”

And the man does begin, calling out names and doing his best to pronounce each properly as people from the crowd approach the knights in front. It was never stated that only 50 service people were needed, it usually being about a thousand of them littering the palace grounds. As the man continued to call out names and as it continued to not be Harry’s, he felt the now familiar feeling of dread bloom in his stomach. He bit his lip, jealous of all of those coming forward as their names are announced.

It comes around to the last ten people and Harry has lost almost all of his hope. He sends out his prayers to all the saints and to God himself that please. _please_. 

It is only in moments of utter desperation, he realizes, that you genuinely know what you really want for yourself. Right now, Harry wanted nothing more than to be called, to be given a chance.

He’s closed his eyes now, head tipped towards the ground in an attempt to hide the tears brimming in his eyes as the man at the front prepares to announce the last name on the list.

“And,” he says, breathing in and out before continuing. “Harry Edward Styles. Those are the 50 selected people coming in to become servicemen and women in the Claror palace of Solbourne, House Tomlinson. Thank you all for being here today. Good day to those of good heart!” The man exclaims and finishes and Harry can’t believe it. He was called. He was the last one called. He got in.

Bloody _fucking_ hell.

 

~*~

 

All things considered, Harry expected only the best of Claror palace. The kingdom of Solbourne was known around the whole continent, damn it, even the whole _world_ , for their immense wealth, power and how they did everything in elegance and style. Harry would be stupid to predict anything less than magnificent from the Tomlinsons yet when he steps inside the palace, no amount of expectation could have prepared him for what he’s met.

The palace is _breathtaking_.

Finely crafted golden chandeliers hang from the highest of ceilings, the candles seeming to never drip from their respective holders. The ceilings themselves were adorned with beautiful paintings, pictures of angels and clouds and countless suns making the room seem even brighter. Clear glass windows from above let in the sunlight, the radiance bouncing off of the chandeliers bathing the whole of the entrance hall in a hazy golden glow. The white walls of the hall were pristine, numerous portraits of beautiful landscapes and people hanging about. The wooden floors were faultless, a light mahogany that blended well with the rest of the room, a soft cream carpet that started from the front doors until the end door of the long hall lied on the floor, and even when Harry was wearing his tattered boots and wasn’t able to feel the carpet on his toes, he could just tell how immaculately soft it would be to the touch.  

The whole ensemble was incredibly magnificent. And it was just the entrance hall, for God’s sake. All in all, it was everything that Harry’s ever dreamed of, but what made it perfect, what completed the ambiance, were the flowers. The flowers were _everywhere_. Soft hues and tones of pink, white, yellow and orange, hanging from the ceiling, inside vases, lining the edges of the room; it was magical.

Harry was ambling along the group of the newly chosen service people that was led by Sir Liam while taking the whole entrance hall in. He was too busy admiring the place that he didn’t realize that the group had come to a halt, still walking and therefore bumping in to the person in front of him.

“Ohmph! Oh god. I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Harry said hurriedly, blush rising to his cheeks from humiliation as he looked at the man in front of him. “I was just uhh admiring the palace. Wasn’t looking where I was going.” 

The man laughed a boisterous laugh, blue eyes kind and bright. “It’s nothing, mate. M’surprised meself. This place is beautiful!” The man exclaimed with a rough foreign accent, he held out his hand and Harry took it to shake. “M’Niall. Niall Horan. Didn’t expect to be called here really was just going cause you never know, you know? Lucky, is what I am.”

“I’m Harry Styles. I was the last one called actually, was losing hope when they called me out,” he said with a laugh, glad that he was making a friend already despite being in the palace grounds only short of a few minutes.

 “Lucky us then, mate,” Niall said in return. He was about to say something else when a loud trumpet was blown and the blond man quickly turned around to the front but not before moving so he was beside Harry rather than in front.

But seriously, though, what was with the royals and their trumpets? They used it bloody everywhere.

Although, it seemed as if this was the most appropriate time to use a trumpet. The group was at the end of the hall, facing the large end door. In front of them stood a tall, beautiful girl who had long brunette hair. She had striking blue eyes, a kind smile gracing her lips. Her gown was spectacular, a simple light blue day robe, with small silvers of gems beautifying it further. Atop her head, there rest a crown.

“Her royal highness Princess Felicity of House Tomlinson,” the trumpeter announced. Everyone in the room immediately gave a deep bow a loud, “Your Highness,” echoing around the room.

The whole kingdom of Solbourne knew their beloved royals well, the monarchs making sure that they paid attention to their people, showing their faces everyone once in a while. Banners of the monarchs moved around the kingdom whenever it was the annual Lux feast day, and portraits of each royal was presented in the town plaza whenever it was their respective birthdays.

The princess Felicity lifted a hand, gesturing for the group to stand properly and Harry was struck at how beautiful she actually was. This was the first time Harry has seen a royal in real life, flesh and all and he must say, even the best artists couldn’t make good enough portraits that would give the Tomlinson royals justice. 

“Welcome to Claror palace, good hearted people. I’m delighted to be able to accept you as a part of our home, which, is now your home too. My brother his highness Prince Louis was the one to supposedly accept you here but, alas, he already had prior commitments to attend to. The same goes for my sister Princess Charlotte. They do send their deepest apologies,” Princess Felicity says, smiling all throughout her speech. “I hope you enjoy your stay at Claror. Even now, I want you to know that your services are very much appreciated and my family would forever be in gratitude. I regret to say that I must go now but I trust you with Sir Liam here. He knows his way around,” the princess says with a laugh. With this she gives a slight bow, a small wave as everyone bows before her again and turns to go back inside the door in which she came out of.

Sir Liam takes the front and invites them to follow him through the entrance door. He gives them a small tour of the palace, telling stories all the while. “You must be wondering why a knight would be giving you this tour,” he said, addressing Harry’s group. “Well, it’s not my duty, actually. I’m just doing it to get out of training.”

The group laughs at this and happiness bubbles inside Harry as he sees how seemingly nice and approachable everyone is. Liam leads them through a couple more doors and passageways before going inside a large room with many wooden chairs and tables, the area much simpler than the rest of the palace.

“This is the service people’s dining area,” Liam gestures around and brightens when he sees a brunet haired bulbous man coming up to him with a smile, “and this, everybody, is your chief of service, Mister James Corden. Great guy, this one.”

“Stop it, Liam, not here,” James says with a slight shove to Liam’s shoulder, making every one laugh. He turns and addresses the group, mischievously grinning at everyone present. “Hello, my new minions! I am your chief of service, or in simpler words, your worst nightmare.” He waits for a few seconds before letting out a guffaw, “I’m just kidding! It basically just means I tell you what to do and you come complaining to me when you don’t want to do it. So, _you_  guys are my worst nightmares.”

The group laughs again and Harry gets elbowed. When he turns to his side, he sees Niall face so red from laughing hard. “Why are you laughing so hard?” Harry asks, expression incredulous.

“It was _funny_!” Niall exclaims with his hands on his red cheeks, trying to calm himself down.

Harry faces James again with a shake of his head, listening in at how James explains that each of them would be stationed at a certain place in the palace to serve since, well, they _are_  service people. Liam hands him a scroll, announcing that he really must leave for training, giving the group one last cheerful wave and a “see you guys around!” before leaving the service dining area.

James clears his throat and brandishes the scroll with his hand. “This here scroll is your assigned groups, the knights specifically made this from your interview, that’s why you had to wait a while. They made it so fast, though, I don’t think they even took it that seriously,” James says laughing, Harry and the other grinning along with him. The chief of service begins to call out their names and their respective service group and Harry hopes he gets the cleaning one since he won’t really mind being able to brush his hands on the soft carpets or the clear windows.

 

~*~

 

Because the universe pathetically and desperately hates Harry, he gets placed in the kitchens. He becomes one of the bakers, and god, Harry loves baking, don’t get him wrong. He loves the way it calms him down, how every step and instruction followed feels like an equivalent of an artist’s brushstroke or a guitarist' strum, how he could make something wonderful out of plain ingredients like simple wheat and flour. He thinks and believes that baking is an art, cakes and pastries presented like portraits that decorate the walls.

Harry loves baking with a passion. It’s just that, well. Sometimes, you get tired even of the things that you love.

He knows it’s what he answered in Liam’s questions, understands that it’s his fault that maybe Liam even _thought_  Harry wanted to be stationed in the kitchens. He knows that he sold himself as a _baker_  and he probably would not be taken in as nothing more yet he can’t help but feel glum at the outtake.

He should have said something ridiculous like he was good at fluffing pillows or whatnot so that he could fix the chambers and try to sneak a nap in the royal beds. _Damn_.

On the brighter side, the kitchen crew seems innocuous enough. They bustle about, around 100 or so people in charge of different cuisines with different specialties. Harry quickly learns that he’s one of the pastry chefs along with a tiny girl named Cher. He brightens at this, the prospect of a new friend and making colorful cakes cheering him up. It’s certainly better than making a simple loaf of bread. _Anything_  is better than making bread. Harry thinks he’s made enough bread in the four years at Simon’s bakery to last him a _lifetime_.

Cher bumps her elbow into him, rousing Harry from his inner musings. Harry looks over to see his partner gesturing over to Mary, the kitchen’s head chef, who’s making a welcoming speech to the new and even the old service people. “Listen up, Harry. You’ve been stuck inside that head of yours I bet you don’t even know what Mary’s saying,” Cher grins and laughs when Harry sticks her tongue out at her.

Harry never said he was a mature 20 year old.

They get briefed, Mary explaining to them how things worked around the palace and inside the kitchens. Harry quickly learns about the grand meals the kitchen crew has to prepare. All of them are full courses, from breakfast to dinner, with different cuisines and recipes each day. The crew prepares the meals of not only the members of the royal family and their guests, but as well as that of the knights and the other service people.

She explains how it is mandatory for the new recruits to go to a few days of training with older service people first before they are ready to tackle their stations by themselves. Mary rambles on about quality, about how the royal family should only have nothing but perfection and all that. “They are kind, that’s true. The Tomlinsons might even be the kindest royals in existence but you would do well to always remember that, even if this is the case, they are _still_  royals. They still have power over all of us, and a horridly tasting bowl of soup when one is starving could anger even the kindest of people,” Mary says to everyone in the kitchens, staring them down meaningfully. After a few seconds of silence, she smiles and claps her hands loudly. “Okay then enough of that! New meat, come with me over here. We’ve got some training to do!” 

Harry could only mindlessly follow, Mary’s warning still playing over his head.

 _It’s probably nothing,_ he thinks.

 

~*~

 

After two weeks of his stay in Claror, Harry could proudly say that he’s gotten a little better at handling his work at the palace. He’s trained with Mary and the other older service people, asked the necessary questions about how the palace works, a little news about the nobilities and knights and even some of the service people. _Honestly_ , the kitchen crew were all such willing gossips.

He’s getting good at preparing exceptional food in large quantities and at a fast pace, mastering how to properly measure the ingredients in one swift cupping motion, sifting the flour at tip top speed and such. He’s even fixed his station just like it was in Simon’s bakery, arranging the ingredients in a way that he doesn’t have to look, just grabs, a picture in his head on where everything is supposed to be. 

He can say that he’s coped well to the changes but the only thing that irks him, completely drives him crazy actually, is how people around the kitchen keep on  _touching his stuff_.

They’ve all got a table for themselves to do their work at, their own ingredients placed in neat jars provided by the palace. He’d understand if the circumstances were a little bit different, is the thing. If they had to share with only one sack of flour or only a vessel of sugar but see, _no_. That wasn’t the case because they didn't have to share. They had their own stuff and Harry doesn’t understand why Cher has to get _his_  salt or why Annie has to grab _his_  wheat or why bloody Ben has to get _his_  fucking vinegar.

Harry is a tolerant and kind person okay, don't get him wrong. His mother raised him specifically like this, patient and respectful, nice to his neighbors. But, putting what Mary said in context, even the nicest people can burst.

And now, two weeks later, after about a thousand times of Harry telling people to “Please don’t touch my stuff, thank you” and “I like to keep them organized and arranged, please don’t keep on getting my ingredients,” the crew _still_  hasn’t learned a single thing.

Harry was just coming back from his visit to Niall in the stables where the his friend was stationed, taking a break from the cake he was making for the royals’ dessert later at dinner. The kitchens were empty at this time, everyone else having an early dinner before they started on the meals to be handed out to the royals and knights. The whole kitchen was empty, except, as it seems, for one person.

When he enters the kitchen, he immediately spots someone at _his_  station. He sees that it’s a short boy, his back turned so Harry has no idea who he is. The boy was wearing a dirty white-sleeved shirt, a simple black doublet strapped above it. His trousers were white and clad in dirt as well, black leather boots reaching his knees. He did not look like he belonged anywhere in the kitchen with what he was dressed in, the crew specifically being told to wear their white tunics tucked under their white trousers.

No matter the boy’s attire though, he was still riffling through Harry’s station, and today was on off day for Harry. He woke up on the wrong side of the bed, Niall’s snores coming from the mattress beside his loud enough to rouse him from his slumber an hour too early. The pangs of homesickness that ambushed him throughout the day did nothing to alleviate his foul mood, adding only to his growing irritation. He only wanted to finish his cake, get to bed and fall asleep so that he could maybe try to have a better day tomorrow.

And now, there was a boy who didn’t belong in the kitchens messing up  his stuff. That was the last straw.

Harry huffed, legs working in long strides as he walked towards where the boy was, halting a feet behind him. “What do you think you’re doing?” Harry says, voice a deep timbre.

The boy jumps, obviously startled by someone else’s sudden presence. He whips around, facing Harry, a sheepish look on his face. He’s holding a small jar filled with salt in his one hand, the other clutching a butter croissant that Harry himself prepared earlier in the day. Harry stares at the other’s hand, wondering what the boy could possibly want to do with the objects he’s carrying.

“Oh, uhm, hello,” The boy says voice a soft mellowing lilt, and Harry flits his eyes at that and meets _blue, cobalt, sapphire, azure eyes._ He sees skin that the sun itself caressed, wispy brown hair and long delicate eyelashes. He sees prominent, glass like cheekbones, a long nose and thin pink lips perfecting the look. He holds in a gasp, breath catching at how _beautiful_  this boy is. He has to stare for a while, has to take it all in, how magnificent the face staring back at him looks.

He only gives himself a few beats before he returns to reality. He remembers his purpose, remembers why he came up to this god like creature in the first place and promptly crosses his arms over his chest. “I asked you, what are you doing in my kitchen station?” Harry says, trying to keep a stern demeanor. By the look of surprise that covers the other boy’s face, he thinks he’s done quite well.

Sun boy blinks his eyes in rapid succession before scrunching his brows and standing straight, shoulders squared. Even at his full height, the boy still has to look up and tilt his chin for him to meet Harry’s eyes. “Excuse me?” The boy asks, incredulous.

 _That’s rich,_ Harry thinks, _he’s surprised that I’m asking him why he’s in my station._

“You heard me. You obviously have no business here dressed like that, so _why_  are you here?” Harry answers back, a little distracted at the way Sun boy raises a brow, thin lips pursing.

“I,” Sun boy says, gesturing to himself with the hand holding the salt, “am in the kitchen to get some sugar for this heinously _bland_  croissant. What are _you_  doing here?”

And what? Bland? It was bland?

Harry isn’t an arrogant person. He _wasn’t._  He was humble and down to earth but he was proud of his croissants, damnit. He’s spent four years perfecting his recipe of them, studying the rise of the yeast well, practicing and perfecting it every day. Who does this boy think he is?

He snorts loud, Sun boy glaring at him all the while. He places his hands on his hips and looks from the jar of salt and back to the boy in front of him. “That’s salt you’re holding, you know. And the croissant wasn’t bland, I tasted them myself. I _made_ them myself. Maybe you just have a problem with your tongue,” Harry says, watching with delight as Sun boy’s eyes widen at his statement. He continues. “Like I said, I’m here because this is _my_  kitchen station. This is where I work so, I think that I have more right to be in here right now more than you do.”

“Have more right--,” Sun boys starts, voice a pitch too high, before he looks Harry up and down, taking him in. After a few seconds, something like realization dawns on his face and mirth explodes in his eyes. He cackles, jutting a hip out, copying Harry’s stance. “ _Are you new around here?_ ” He asks Harry, lips stretched in an amused smile. His cerulean eyes are twinkling and Harry’s proud that he’s able to even pry his own emerald one from those beautiful blues.

“Yes, does it matter?” Harry answers and the boy’s smile only widens before he’s cackling, shaking his head. He turns back to Harry’s stack of ingredients, picks out the correct jar of sugar and cups his palm as he shakes some of the contents of the vessel onto it.

He faces Harry after this, raising an eyebrow as he takes a bite out of his croissant (the croissant that Harry’s made, the _not_  bland one, thank you very much) and quickly throwing in a pinch of sugar in his mouth. “What’s your name?” Sun boy asks mouth full of the pastry, eyes still twinkling with amusement.

“Harry. Harry Styles. What’s yours?”

Sun boy laughs at this, (again, _why_ is he laughing?) and shakes his head. “Hmm. You’ll know soon enough, baker boy Harry. I’ll see you around.” He says, throwing in a cheeky wink before walking away, out of the kitchen doors.

Who was that (gorgeous, perfect, stunning) boy?

“Soon enough,” Harry whispers to himself before continuing on the batter of the cake that needed his attention, thoughts still on the boy he’s just met.

Soon enough.

 

~*~

 

Apparently, soon enough actually became not soon enough for Harry’s liking.

It was a week after the whole croissant and salt debacle with that mysteriously unknown beautiful boy. He’s asked Niall and Cher already, describing Sun boy’s features (“he’s really really small and really really pretty”) but alas, they have no idea who he is.

A thrum in Harry’s veins made him worry a bit. Maybe the boy was a maestro? Oh dear, God, what if he was a noble? But with the way he was dressed, clothes simple and dirty, Harry thinks that it's not possible. Maybe the boy's just an ambitious stable boy. But if he was a stable boy, Niall surely would know who he was. _Ugh_.

It made his head hurt a little, thinking about the boy too much. It was just, he was so _beautiful_. Up until now, few days past, and Harry still can’t forget how gorgeous the Sun boy was. His features were perfect, even the lilt of his voice mesmerizing. Sure, Harry was still annoyed by the boy (touching his things _and_ calling his croissants bland, _please_ ) but it doesn’t stop him from wanting to find out who he is.

He is walking in the gardens now to clear his head a little, early morning sunshine warm on his skin. The palace really was beautiful, every aspect of it pleasant to the eye. Harry loved that he was able to freely roam around the palace, only a few private locations restricted to the service people. He loved that in every turn, he was able to discover a new part of the humongous castle, more portraits and statues to admire all around. He already had learned to love the palace dearly, the soul of it leaving a happy bubbly feeling inside Harry's chest despite his homesickness. His ardor for the inside of the palace increased everyday but to him, no space would ever surpass the love he has for the royal gardens. 

It was a large space, probably more than a few acres of just nature. A gravel path with perfectly aligned squared shrubs, flowers of all shapes and colors, illuminated by the bright sun of Solbourne. He loved to spend his free time here in the gardens, especially loves walking around the maze. It straightens his head, being away from the fumes of the kitchens and the noise in the dining area, and milling about stretches his long limbs, makes him a little bit calmer.

He was on his last turn of the long maze which he had already memorized the way in and out (he had a lot of time in between meals, what of it?) before he reaches the exit, already spent a good hour just wondering about and was just approaching the end, about to go back inside and maybe nap a bit when he crashes into someone.

And by someone, he means the queen.

What fucking luck he has, really.

How he didn’t see her and her whole entourage, Harry doesn’t know. But within a few seconds, he feels hands clutching his arms tightly, lifting him from where he crashed down on the floor.

Guards are holding him back, before he knows it. Two strong burly men making him kneel before the queen. God, he didn’t even mean to bloody body slam into the _queen_  of all people. Even just touching the royals without their consent was punishable by death let alone crashing into them. He’s an idiot sometimes but he’s not that much of an idiot.

“I’m sorry, your highness,” Harry says, bowing down, bringing his forehead to rest on the ground. He’s trembling, really. The initial shock of the turn of events having subsided, leaving him with nothing but fear in his gut. “I wasn’t looking where I was going! Please forgive me, my Queen.”

Before the queen could even utter a single response, Harry hears a loud tinkling laugh fill the air, hears the voice he’s been thinking about for the past week. “Baker boy!” The voice shouts and he _knows_  he mustn’t look up, has to remain bowed to ask for the queen’s forgiveness but he just _can’t_ resist it.

He’s been driving himself crazy for the past week with how much he wants to hear that voice again, be able to see the person to whom the voice belongs.

So, of course, he looks up. 

The moment he lifts his eyes from the ground, the wonderful sight of the Sun boy meets his eyes again. _Finally_ , Harry thinks.

The boy is clad in a wondrous ensemble. Light blue long sleeved doublet fitting his firm chest like a glove, the color bringing out the azure of his eyes. His white trousers are clean this time, brown shoes polished and shining. Everything is marvelous on him, but the thing that makes Harry take in a deep breath is something that he never thought Sun boy would be able to wear.

Atop his wispy caramel hear, sits a small but intimidating, heavily ornamented, silver coronet. It has sapphires and aquamarines as embellishments, and it _fits._  The Sun boy looking mighty and powerful with it, _radiating_.

Like this, he really does look like the sun.

He’s roused by his musings when the queen turns to the grinning boy, raising her eyebrows at him. “You know this boy, Louis?”

The boy, _Louis_ , nods, eyes crinkling as his grin widens. “Yes, Your Majesty. He’s one of the new servicemen from last week. Works at the kitchens.”

The Queen nods, turning back to Harry and giving him a smile. “What’s your name, child?”

Harry’s heart stutters for a while, nerves grating as he’s being addressed by the _queen_. He opens his mouth and tries his best to speak out his name, hoping that he didn’t mumble. Apparently, it wasn’t loud enough because one of the guards nudges him painfully with his foot. “Speak up, boy! The Queen is talking to you!”

“M’name’s Harry, Your Majesty,” Harry answers, knees starting to ache at how he’s knelt on the floor, gravel path digging in his skin.

“Well then, stand up, Harry. No need for all this. It was an honest mistake, yes?” The Queen says, gesturing for the guards to stand down, the two men holding harry down immediately stepping back.

“Yes, it was, my Queen,” Harry says as he stands, glad that the weight of his body was no longer supported by his knobby knees. “Please do forgive me.”

“It’s all well, child. Now, if you may go along, I’d like to take a walk around the gardens in peace. No more clumsy boys bumping into me,” Queen Johannah laughs out, actually winking at Harry before she starts walking along, her entourage of guards and handmaidens following her trail. 

“Actually,” a voice from behind Harry starts, making him turn around. He sees Louis standing there, looking regal in all has glory. Standing beside the Sun boy is another stunning human being that Harry hasn’t noticed due to the stress of his life potentially ending because of his lackluster luck. The other man was dark skinned, jet-black hair falling over his eyes. He was dressed in simple all black clothing that suits his features remarkably. His face was serious, the only thing that shows he’s even paying attention is the mischief shining in his brown eyes; mischief just like Louis’. Speaking of.

“I’d rather opt out of this one, if I may,” Louis says, giving the queen a saccharine smile. “Lord Malik here and I just realized that there's something that we had to do, Mother.”

And —  _oh_. Oh, _shit_.

Mother. _Mother._

The queen was Louis’ mother. If that’s the case, it means that he’s _the_  Louis of House Tomlinson, first of his name, heir apparent to the Solbourne throne, protector of the realm.

Oh holy fucking shit was Harry in deep trouble. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So a little info about the fic's setting: Solbourne. As you all know, it is actually not a real kingdom/place. Woah, surprising!!! But yeah, i made it up and because of that, here are some facts to help you all visualize it:
> 
> 1\. Sol, in Latin, is the sun. Bourne, on the other hand, has two meanings. One, is that it's a destination/goal, and the other, a boundary. Combining them together, it's either SunGoal or SunLimit. I also chose bourne since it sounds like born!  
> 2\. Currency, of course, is simpler than modern world money seeing as i am neither a very great mathematician, nor do i think it's important to create a whole monetary system for a fic. Basically, it's just 5 bronze pieces are equivalent to 1 silver piece; the same goes for gold. You could by probably about 2 to three loaves of bread with 1 bronze piece!  
> 3\. The kingdom is an ordinarily humid kingdom, but it's not too hot. Like, it still get's fairly cold during winter. Idk how i got this to happen (but it's my own world, and it's fictional so hah).  
> 4\. England, Ireland, France, and all the other countries in our world does not exist in the Solbourne Universe. I figured it would make no sense to create a fictional world, and incorporate real nations.  
> 5\. To help show how powerful i made the Tomlinsons here, let's just say that their kingdom is about the size of the whole United States west coast. Mind you, that's already fairly big for a medieval empire!!
> 
> Sooo, i guess that's about it? I hope you liked it! If you have any questions, please feel free to comment! :) Thanks xx


	2. ii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Louis is cruel. Strangely, it's only to Harry. He doesn't particularly like the special treatment, though.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is soooo late :( Sorry about that! I'll try to update faster next time. 
> 
> Anyway, thanks so much for those who commented and left kudos. They're very much appreciated.
> 
> All of that disclaimer stuff goes up here as well and all that.
> 
> So yep, hope you enjoy this one! I had loads of fun writing it xx

 

_Let's cause a little trouble,_ _you make me feel so weak._

 _I bet you kiss your knuckles, r_ _ight before they touch my cheek._

_-Trouble // Halsey_

~*~

It was bright and sunny and Harry could feel the warmth of the sun’s rays on his skin. The atmosphere was calm, little gusts of wind balancing the familiar summer Solbourne heat. It was the perfect weather to hang about, to lounge in the gardens and read a book, maybe go for a swim in the nearby lake. 

It was, however, not the best weather to die in.

Surely god would have at least warranted Harry a storm, perhaps a little downpour here and there. He had been a good person all throughout his life, never stealing, never murdering and such; he at least deserved a little theatrics with climate complementing his death.

And he wondered not for the first time that week, why his life was so painstakingly miserable.

 ~*~

 

The room he was brought into was, for the lack of a better word, perfect.

It was _huge_ — heavy oak doors shining with crystals of blue and yellow, glimmering even from afar. Beautifully crafted wallpapers that looked as if they were hand painted were plastered to the walls. The soft luster of the candles that were placed on a silver chandelier was radiating around the space making the chamber look even more spectacular.

These wonderful details were the first things that captured Harry’s attention when he walked inside the chamber, but upon further inspection, he saw that on one side of the chamber stood a bookcase that was the whole walls' width. From the ceiling to the floor, it was stacked with leather-bound books, shelves full and crammed. This amazed Harry to an enormous extent — never has he seen this many books in his life. He’s always loved reading; ever since the moment that he was able to, Harry devoured the words in all the pages of the books he was able to find, his mind full of stories and his heart full of hope.

Alas, due to his family’s shortage of funds, his resources was always limited. Books were _expensive_ , and only ever the noblemen had a collection as vast as the one in front of him. His mum and Gemma knew how much he loved to immerse himself in a story, though, and they always found a way around the scarcity of money, presenting him with heavy books that he loved with all his might.

The thought of his family brings a sudden pang in his heart, constricting, making it harder for him to breathe. He misses them _so much_.

He turns away from the bookshelf, willing his mind to stray away from his home.

Smack in the middle of the room sat a massive four-poster bed. Heavily embroidered, pure white cloths hang tied from the side poles, enough to cover the entire bed if it was made to fall. The white of the duvet looked immaculate to Harry, seemed soft like a cloud. He wanted to lie down on top of it for a while, feel the feathers of the mattress dip as he rested his whole weight on it.

He wanted to, _so much,_ but, like the many other things in his life, he couldn’t.

Louis and Zayn left him here just a few minutes ago, smiles bright on their faces and mirth shimmering in their eyes. After the encounter with the queen, the three of them, along with a few of Louis’ guards, walked back inside the palace. The prince and his friend accompanied Harry to wherever he was now and simply went out the oak doors again, not even addressing a single word to him, leaving him behind.

He didn’t know what to do after that, didn’t know if the two noblemen were going to come back. Harry could feel his  hands shaking and heart stammering with nerves as he contemplated his life, worrying about whether Louis was going to have his head for disrespecting him. And, God. Harry was still not over how stupid he was.

Louis Tomlinson. Louis _bloody_ Tomlinson and he didn’t realize. The heir to the throne, of the _whole_ kingdom, was in front of him, _talking_ to him, and what did Harry do? He affronted him. Of course, only he would be able to do such a thing.

It was just that, the thing he said before about artists not giving the royals enough justice? Well, it is a hundred percent true. 

Louis looked marvelous in person, is the thing. Stunning and radiant, the beautiful portraits paling in comparison to what he looked like in the flesh. Even when he had dirty clothes on, he still seemed too good to be true. Harry wasn’t blind; he saw the paintings of the House Tomlinson, saw Louis’ portraits paraded around the town square every year during his birthday. Harry remembers, when he was just a little boy, how he would gawk at the stunning boy in the big portraits. He remembers thinking how, amidst the snow falling and the grey skies, Louis still managed to be as bright as the sun. So yes, he knew that Louis was aesthetically pleasing, beautiful physique and facial structure and all that not lost on Harry. 

But, it was just that he seemed brighter, more encompassing in real life. His eyes in the paintings were a dull blue, almost greyish in color. In person, they looked like the ocean, a vivid cerulean that Harry wanted to dive and get lost in, to always look at. His smiles too in the portraits seemed forced and unnatural. In just the two meetings that Harry has had with Louis, he already knows that the prince’s smile was extraordinary. It lightened up his whole face, eyes crinkling at the sides and thin pink lips stretched in a happy curve. All of this along with the fact that Louis was dressed immaculately in the portraits well; it was enough for Harry not to notice who the dirty boy that stood in his kitchen station really was.

And now that he does know who he really is, well, it fits that he’s having a hard time breathing. Although the Tomlinsons were known to be kind royals, they will, at the end of every day, still be royals. Meaning, even the slightest hint of disrespect could cost a person their heads. Harry would like his head attached to his body, thank you very much. 

Surveying the large chamber once more, he saw that the large window by the side was, in fact not a window at all. As he walked closer, Harry noticed that it was a balcony. He, thinking that some fresh air would help calm his nerves, gingerly pushes the door open and walks out.

Harry walks over towards the edge of the balcony, hands clutching the large stone parapets. The view was stunning, as he expected. It overlooked the mountains and hills, the town square of Solbourne that’s very close to the Claror palace visible from where Harry stood. The beach was also in sight to Harry’s left, waves lapping against the glimmering sand.

He takes it all in, the view, recounting memories of how he swam in those oceans with Gemma and his friends, hot sand in between his toes. He thinks about the town square and all the people he's left behind: Ed, Jade, Ashton and even Taylor; he misses them so much. He then thinks about his mum, how devastated she would be if he died, how he cannot die, not for himself, but for his family. They needed him alive.

He takes in a deep breath and closes his eyes, tilting his head up towards the sun; sending a little prayer to anyone who was listening to _please, please spare my life. I just got here, for god’s sake, let me enjoy the view a little bit more._

He was prepared to grovel at Louis’ feet, to do _anything_ , if he had to. (Even when the prince called his croissants bland. Although, admittedly, he’s still cross about that.)

He must have lost track of time though for mere seconds later, he hears a little cough coming from the door leading back to the beautiful chamber.

Harry startles and quickly whips his head, turning to look at where the noise came from.

He sees a vision.

Prince Louis is there, torso leaning on the glass doors with his arms crossed. His brown hair is windswept, wispy strands falling over his forehead. The sun’s gleam is reflecting against his tanned skin, the shadows of his exceptionally long eyelashes visible from where Harry’s stood. The shimmering silver crown atop his head perfects his look, making him seem other worldly.  _He truly is beautiful_ , Harry thinks not for the first time.

The prince is looking at Harry with something glimmering in his eyes, although of what, Harry has no idea. Probably thinking of ways on how to murder Harry. _Great_. 

“What are you doing out here?” The prince asks voice a lovely tilt.

Harry immediately steps forward to where the prince is and falls to his knees, body kicking into gear as the realization that this man in front of him would be able to literally end his life dawning on him. “Your Highness, I—,” 

“Oh that’s rich! Now that you know who I am, you start with all this ‘your highness’ bullshit,” Louis says, not moving from where he is, lips pulled up in a smirk.

Harry blinks up at that, looking at Louis with wide eyes. “I was just trying to apologize for the way I’ve treated you in the past, Your Grace,” he answers, voice shaking, bowing his head in shame. Moments pass by and Harry doesn’t get a response. He peeks a little, looking up at Louis. “Your Highness?” He asks hesitantly.

“If you think,” Louis starts, flicking his fringe to the side and smirking down at Harry’s knelt figure, “that it would be that easy for you well, you are wrong, baker boy. I mean, not recognizing a royal? Let alone blatant disrespect? That is punishable by _death_!” 

“Y-yes, I know that, Your Highness. Please, I would do anything to garner your forgiveness,” Harry stutters.

“Oh, anything, huh?” Louis says, smirk ever present, clear amusement radiating off of his face. 

It hits Harry a little, how the other man could find entertainment in talking about a thing as serious as a possible death sentence. How he finds it amusing that with just a snap of his fingers, Harry could literally be headless in only a few minutes. He thinks of how everyone in the kingdom believes that the House Tomlinson royals are kind and cogitates that maybe, the one in front of him is the exception.

This realization doesn’t alter the fact that his life is still in the hands of the ever-smirking prince in front of him, unfortunately, so he lowers his gaze as well as his pride. “Anything, Your Grace,” Harry answers a bit scornfully. “Anything at all.”

He startles as the prince claps, kicking off from where he was leaning on the door and standing straight. “Well then. We haven’t got all day now, do we? Stand up, baker boy. Come with me,” Louis says, beckoning Harry over as he turns to go back inside the chambers.

Harry quickly scrambles up from his knelt position, stumbling a little. He swiftly holds to the doorknob, a tinkling giggle filtering his ears all the while. He looks at Louis, glaring a little as he sees the other man with a hand covering his mouth, eyes crinkling at the sides.

“And please, try not to brain yourself while on the job, yes?” The prince says, still smiling at Harry. “I need you to be fully functioning for what I intend to do with you.”

Doom fills Harry’s chest at this statement, different kinds of unpleasant thoughts filtering through his head all at once. He thinks about all the horrid things Louis might make him do, turning pale as he realizes that death is not the worst punishment, as it seems.

The prince leads them out of the chamber; nodding along at his friend Zayn who’s sitting by a couch, book in hand. 

They walk around the palace for a while, not uttering a word to each other. The only noise that could be heard as they move towards wherever it is they’re going to are their footsteps as well as Louis’ quiet humming. Harry tries his best to distract himself; looks at the grander paintings in this much grander part of the castle, thinks about the meal he has to prepare later for supper, observes the way the prince walks beside him, graceful feet pattering along the carpeted flooring. He tries hard to ignore the worry that quells in his brain more and more as every second passes by.

Harry only lasts 7 minutes before he breaks.

“Uhm, excuse my talking, but what _are_ you planning to do with me, Your Highness?” He addresses the young prince quietly, voice almost a whisper, afraid that a step out of line might make his punishment worse.

Beside him, Louis turns his head and smiles at Harry kindly — almost too kind. “Don’t worry,” the prince says around his smile. “It’s a reasonable enough punishment.”

~*~ 

At first, Harry agreed with the prince that it _was_ a reasonable enough punishment.

He’s quickly realizing now though, how _un_ reasonable it actually is. 

He’s at his fourth croissant batter, hands and arms already aching madly as he forces them to move. Harry’s standing at his station in the kitchen, beads of sweat forming by his temples, glaring at the dough he’s kneading currently. It’s been a few hours since he’s started with the first batter and as every minute passes by, another tick to the _How Much I Hate Prince Louis The Fucker_ chart is added in Harry’s mind. He’s never been a hateful person, but this is just pushing it.

“Maybe it’s the way you’re kneading the dough,” Louis, _fucking Louis_ , says across from Harry, daintily perched on top of a plush expensive looking chair set up for the prince by Mary herself. He’s looking at the baker with that too kind smile again, like he knows how much Harry wants to drown him on the tea he’s elegantly sipping.

“No, I don’t think it is, Your Highness,” Harry answers through gritted teeth, looking back down on the perfectly fine dough on his working top. He glares at it instead, trying his best not to wring the prince’s neck in front of him.

“ _Maybe_ it’s your portion control!” The prince answers, clapping his hands as if he’s found the answer to Solbourne and its neighboring countries' disputes. “Maybe you don’t know how to count that well?”

Harry takes a deep inhale and exhale first before he even thinks of answering. “I’m perfectly capable of counting, My Prince,” he answers disdainfully, kneading the dough a tad too hard.

The prince hums contemplatively at his answer, looking as if he’s biting back a laugh. The fucker. “Well if it’s not that then what _is_ wrong?” Louis says, brows scrunched, looking at Harry’s hands as they moved, long fingers flattening the pliant dough. “ _Maybe_ you really just _cannot_ make a good croissant, then?”

Harry has to remind himself that the person in front of him is of much,  _much_ higher importance than himself; therefore if he ever kills the said person, he too would be killed. It’s the only thing that stops him from slapping the smirk off of Louis’ face.

“I’m sure I can make a great pastry, Your Grace,” Harry starts and doesn’t get to continue because Louis immediately cocks his head to the side with an eyebrow raised, face filled with faux innocent curiosity.

“If that’s true, why is this your fourth batter and why does the other three taste like shit?” Louis retorts, smiling saccharin sweet. 

“ _Maybe_ if you let me bake them first instead of being an impatient dick and dipping your finger and eating the raw dough, they would taste a lot better,” Harry says acidly, before he could stop himself. He looks at the prince with a startled movement, instantaneously realizing his mistake, lips already mouthing at an apology.

Louis’ smile quickly turns into a smirk though, and he hops off of his chair, moves towards Harry and stands directly in front of the other boy, no working table separating them anymore. The prince steps closer, resting his hands on Harry’s broad chest. 

“You should really learn how to keep your mouth shut, baker boy,” he whispers, breath fanning Harry’s cheeks at their proximity. He looks up at Harry’s eyes then, his heavy azures meeting Harry’s sparkling emeralds. “It might just save you from getting killed.”

Before Harry realizes what’s happening, Louis has turned away from him, moving towards his chair yet again. One of the prince’s fingers is coated with the chocolate dough Harry had been preparing and he watches as the royal pops the digit inside his mouth, tasting the unbaked dough of the fourth batter yet again, like he had done to the previous three. He hums thoughtfully, finger still in his mouth, and Harry is powerless, looking at the sight before him; something he thought he never would see. Something he thought he would never _want_ to see.

Harry was perfectly aware of his preferences, true; he knows how he would rather be met with a dapper young man on top of a strikingly white horse rather than a fine maiden in a tailored gown any day. It was just that amidst all the happenings lately, the bumping into the queen, the insult inflicted to the crown prince’s honor and such, he never had the chance to even think about things like what he’s looking at now; although, for the life of him, right at this moment, he seems incapable of doing anything else but.

He feels a blush rise to his cheeks at how directly the royal’s eyes are looking at him, intense cerulean capturing Harry’s gaze. He feels hot immediately, watching how Louis’ cheekbones are more prominent like this, looks sharp enough to cut through skin like glass, thinks about how much more prominent they would look if the prince were to suck on something else. Which, oops.

He startles as Louis pops the finger out of his mouth, devilishly smirking at Harry as if he knows what dirty thoughts his actions had procured through the baker’s head.

After a few seconds, the smirk the prince had been harboring turns into a calm smile; he turns and looks at the dough that sits lifelessly on top of Harry’s station instead. “Just add a little sugar to that then,” he says, mischief and something else unbeknownst to Harry present in his eyes. “Maybe if it was sweet enough, it’d taste a whole _lot_ better.”

Louis winks at Harry and turns to leave. The whole kitchen quiet as they watch the royal move towards the door, alert of his every movement. They’ve been silent the whole three hours that Louis has been here, Harry quickly realizes. He comes to that he didn’t even hear the usual curses and banter thrown around the kitchen crew, realizes how that must be a sign of respect mandatory in the presence of a monarch. Oops again.

Louis was almost out the door before he abruptly stops and turns his head over his shoulder to look at Harry. “Oh and baker boy,” he says, voice suddenly strong, his head held high. “From this day forth, you are now my personal chef. I expect _only_ the finest and nothing less. Consider yourself… promoted.”

With this, and a smile and wave to the rest of the kitchen crew, he walks out the mahogany doors, a band of knights (including Liam, Harry belatedly realizes) following his leave.

The crew in presence instantly turns to look at Harry once the prince and his guards have left, Mary’s wide eyes full of astonishment. “What in the Sun God’s name did you do, Harry?” She asks, stepping away form her own station to move towards where Harry is.

“Why? Is it a bad thing to be his personal chef?” Harry asks, lips quivering with worry.

“No, it’s not, dear,” Mary says, confused. “It’s just that, well. To be a personal chef is something really special; very _very_ special, actually. Special enough that a few years have passed since anyone has been assigned to become a personal chef for a royal.”

“Oh,” Harry breaths, at a loss for words. “Who were they?”

“It was me, deary. For princess Daisy when she was still a very small toddler. She had a quite unique appetite then, is why. But for you, though,” Mary says, a smile blooming on he face, something akin to pride present in her eyes. Harry always did like Mary. “You’re new! And you are just short of a man. That’s why I asked you, what did you do for His Highness to ask for you specifically?”

“Well, you saw how he’s been here for the past three hours, Mary,” Harry says to the woman who quickly nods her head, attentive to what Harry tells her. “It was sort of a punishment?”

“What? A punishment for what?” Mary asks voice colored with surprise.

Harry scrunches his knows and retells the story of how he unfortunately met Louis, watches as the expression on Mary’s face quickly turns from one of curiosity to that of horror.

“Harry! You didn’t!” She says, slapping the boy’s arm with the dishrag in her hand.

“But I did,” Harry groans, rubbing his arms and pouting at Mary.

The woman only rolls her eyes at him before her face quickly returns to a confused expression. “If you disrespected him, then why is he promoting you to a personal chef status?” Mary says to him and he shrugs in return, pondering the same thing as his superior is.

“You do know what it entails to be a personal chef, right?” The woman asks him, sighing as Harry shakes his head. “Well, for one, you make all of his meals and only his from now on; breakfast, lunch, dinner and the desserts, all you. Second, you have to be there when waiters serve it to him too and stand by as His Highness finishes the meal. Just that really, quite easier than what you’re doing now preparing for a whole army.”

Harry squawks at the second part, the thought that he has to see the prince more often now an unpleasing one. “Why do I have to be there if he has royal servers already? And why do I have to wait for him to finish?” 

“Yes, the royals have their own servers but because he assigned _you_ as his personal chef that means _you_ are his go to person when it comes to his food. You have to wait for his comments after the meal too, as a matter of fact. The royals only eat the finest and that’s why you lot didn’t get to serve them the main courses. Only me and a few others did.”

“That’s a bit arrogant of you, Mary,” Harry jokes. He laughs as Mary slaps his arm again. “But wait, I thought it’s been a while since the royals had a personal chef? What are you guys then if not theirs?”

“We are the Royal Cooks and we prepare their food as a whole, love,” Mary answers him with a smile. “All the same appetizers, main courses and such. It’s just a whole buffet for them in their table! You, on the other hand, you solely serve His Highness Prince Louis now.”

Harry nods at this information, mind still thinking about what the prince’s intentions are for promoting him from his previous position. He then suddenly remembers the welcoming speech that Mary did only a few weeks prior and he gives the woman a look full of confusion, eyes squinting a tad.

“ _Heeeey_. If the Royal Cook are the ones who make the royals’ food and not the main crew, then what was that you were saying about angering the monarchs with a horrid bowl of soup in your introductory speech lecture thing?” He says raising an eyebrow as he queries.

“Of course, I had to scare you lot a little, didn’t I?” The woman says, pinching his cheeks as he pouts.

“So, if that’s the case then uhm, can I ask a quick question?” Harry says, something dawning to him that only makes him want to hit his own head a little bit more.

“You already are asking, deary,” Mary answers to which Harry squints at her for. Mary laughs and makes a ‘go on’ kind of gesture for him to continue.

“The croissants that, uhm, were given to the royals a week ago, you remember? For dinner?” Harry says and Mary nods at him, looking as if she has no idea where the boy is getting to.

“Well, who made them?” He finally breathes out, afraid of the words that Mary will soon utter; afraid that it was actually not his croissants that prince Louis hated in the first place and Harry was salty for no reason.

Mary quirks an eyebrow at him, hilarity glimmering in her eyes. “You did? You don’t remember? I specifically asked you and not Cher and the others to make a fresh batch,” the chef tells him and Harry feels a momentary burst of comfort, the fact that what he did was a little bit justifiable pacifying him a tad. The feeling quickly dissipates though, as he remembers that not only was he possibly put down, but also now, he got on to the crown prince’s bad graces.  Sobering thought, that.

Before he could provide his superior with an even semi acceptable, non-floaty answer, the woman grins brightly at him and pinches his cheeks again. “Which, I actually forgot to thank you for, dear. It was supposed to be me who would make them, but I couldn’t have _possibly_ since my poor _old_ hands were aching too much. So, thanks a bunch, love!” The woman says and laughs as Harry only pouts at him some more. “Well then if that’s all, I must go now. Supper’s not going to make itself, am I right?” She makes to go, before Harry grasps her wrist in alarm, pulling her back.

“Wait a second, Mary. I don’t know what to prepare! I’m a baker, not a chef!” Harry says. He feels so stupid all of a sudden, realizes how this must have been what the prince was planning all along. He starts to panic, hands jittering when Mary brings him back to reality.

“I _know_ you can cook, Harry. I’ve seen you around here in the kitchens, preparing your blonde haired friend’s food when you think no one’s watching,” Mary says to him with a knowing look.

Harry immediately blushes at this, remembers all the meals he prepared and sneaked off into his and Niall’s room for them to eat together, thinking that none were the wiser. Apparently, Mary was very wise. “Sorry,” he says bashfully. “Thought you didn’t know.”

“Oh, I know, love. I _always_ know,” Mary grins before quickly sobering. “If you really are worried though, I could lend you a recipe book of mine. It has loads of great meal ideas.”

Harry really likes Mary.

“That would be amazing, Mary. You’re the best,” he says to her, giving her a brief hug.

Mary laughs at him squeezing him through the hug. “Flattery will get you nowhere, boy! Now let me go so I could find that recipe book and we could all get started on our jobs before we all get hanged!”

Harry laughs hard to distract himself from the nerves that are daring to eat him up.

~*~ 

The whole arrangement of meals Harry has prepared is quite extravagant, if he does say so himself. He’s looking at the fancy golden plates and cups placed atop his new working station, a wide array of food for prince Louis to choose from looking back at him.

After the whole debacle of the said monarch promoting him, Lavin, one of the Royal Cooks that prepared for the, duh, royals, managed to drag Harry out of his occupied kitchen area and onto a space that was much less crowded. As it turns out, they had their own little secluded corner to work in (Harry has no idea how he managed to not notice this, really.) They were still in the humongous kitchen, mind you. He could still hear the bustling of the crew since only a red curtain separated the Royal Cooks (holy fuck, Harry was already a royal cook. It took _years,_ even _decades_ , to become a head chef. _Holy shit_ ) from the main crew.

When Mary handed him the recipe book a few hours back, he had almost lost his mind, flipping through its pages. Growing up with only stale bread, pottage, milk, and the occasional lamb to eat, Harry was astonished at how excessive and lavish food could actually be made to be. There was an overload of recipes to choose from from the book, hundreds and hundreds of ingredients and spices needed, seasonings that even Niall—the ‘eats everything, steals every food in the kitchens kind of guy’ —has never tasted. 

As it seems, the palace kitchens were fully equipped, all of the required spices just littering the head chefs’ rooms, stored and stowed away in safety.

He walks towards the area holding the spices, reads the labeled jars, studies the familiar to the rare to the ones he has never even heard of. Cinnamon, cloves, nutmeg, ginger, saffron, cardamom, coriander, garlic, turmeric, mace and so much more neatly arranged in tiny vessels on the shelves.

The special area for the Royal Cooks—or RCs, as how Lavin dubs them as (“it sounds infinitely cooler than being called a royal _cook_ , Harry”) — looks much of the same as it does for the normal cooks, granted, it’s a lot more spacious, and their working tops are a lot larger but, meh, details. The only relevant difference is that unlike for the main crew, the ten RCs handling the royals’ and guests’ food all share the same ingredients rather than having their own placed near their stations.

This bothers Harry immensely, of course, but because he has no other choice, he only grimaces as he reads the instructions of his chosen meals from the recipe book and sets forth to acquire the needed components. If he mentally curses Lavin for being so slow at the pantry well, no one has to know.

The meals he had decided on were only a bit difficult to create, his cooking skills drastically better than it was before he came to the palace. Who knew sneakily cooking at the middle of the night because your roommate was an always-hungry bastard could actually be quite beneficial? No one knew, that’s who.

He had prepared a simple enough appetizer, an _Ove Plene_ —which is just a fancy term for stuffed eggs—sitting neatly on the golden plate Harry pulled out of one of the rooms containing the cutlery, dinnerware and such. He had gone through the motions accurately, following each step purposefully. He boiled the egg, quickly cutting them in half after. He prepared the herbs and some cheese to grind and made a paste, stuffing them in the eggs and frying. He even garnished the plate, choosing to dot along the sides as he placed four set eggs on it. 

Next, he focused on creating the perfect pumpkin soup, determinedly balancing the taste. He makes it creamy but not too much, just rich enough to slide smoothly down without causing a sore throat.

For the main course, Harry picks the perfect sounding meal— _the Roast of Kings_ — which, again, is just fancy for roasted lamb; these royal recipes and their bullshit, honestly.

Here was where he had an admittedly harder and longer time preparing though, having to redo the mixture in which he would have to baste the lamb in. He had unknowingly mistaken the thyme for basil and the fennel with oregano, new flavors mixing with familiar ones befuddling Harry a tad. He also handled the meat delicately thus consuming more time, the fact that it was his first time to even _see_ let alone _touch_ lamb meat still casting mild wonder in his mind.

He worried for a bit, chewing on his lips, metallic taste tanging on his tongue. He wondered what he was preparing would taste like, if the taste would be fit for a prince, if Louis would be satisfied and decidedly not behead him. Not for the first time that day did he doubt if he was going to make it through the 24 hours alive. The thought that this was only his first time preparing the monarch’s meal and that he would have to do it for the rest of his life is horrid enough to make a shudder run through him. 

After the meat was basted and tucked in the oven for a while however, an extremely good aroma started filling the space, drifting through the air and hitting his senses, wiping all other thoughts away immediately. _Wow, that smells really good_ , Harry thinks. 

Going by the faces of his fellow RCs, they’re thinking the same thing too. 

He only smiles wider at that. 

Harry only realizes that he’s fucked up and is probably going to die when he grazes his head to Mary’s general direction, acknowledging the woman as she addresses him. 

“Smells good, love,” Harry hears Mary shout from her table just a few feet away from his, fancy looking pie positioned on it. He’s about to bashfully return a thanks before he zeroes in on the said pie, staring at it with such intensity that he is _sure_ it would melt if he doesn’t stop. _Oh shit_.

“Oh shit,” Harry whispers, still gawking at the dessert. “How long before supper starts, Mary?”

He hears then, one of the scariest things he ever possibly could hear. “Forty minutes!” 

He, just previously a pastry chef assigned to make bread loaves, pastries and _dessert_ , god forbid, forgot to make a _dessert_. He’s going to die.

Well, okay maybe he’s not. He has gathered as much now that the crown prince may be a bit annoying( _ly gorgeous, perfect, ethereal, god-like_ but what? Get back to the point. Yes.) but he won’t take Harry’s life because his personal chef succinctly forgot dessert. Still, he has this thrumming in his veins that started to rapidly burn and become a full-fledged desire to please the prince ever since the said monarch called his croissants bland.

Which, hm. Croissants.

 _Inner musings are very helpful_ , he self notes.

Harry cursorily moves towards the main kitchens, throwing aside the plush red curtains that separates him from the others. He heads for his old working station, determined steps moving him swiftly, hands already twitching to reach for the bowl filled with the last batch of dough he made when— nothing. He sees nothing. 

His old handy wooden table is stripped bare of any dough or bowl or bowl _with_ dough. He stares at it for minute, thinks about the disappointed face Louis would be giving him soon enough, and resolutely tries not to kick the table in frustration. _Seems like someone decided to clean up early_ , he thinks bitterly, cursing whoever had a good enough heart to tidy up his old station. _Whatever, maybe chivalry_ should _be dead._

“Hiya, Harry!” 

He startles when he hears this, rounding up on Cher as she looks at him weirdly. “You’re jumpy,” she snickers.

He shakes his head at her and points a finger towards the empty table. “Why is it empty, Cherry?” Harry whines, lips in a pout. He smiles around it though when he sees Cher rolling her eyes at the nickname. 

“Jonny cleaned it up a while ago, said someone new was coming in to replace you,” Cher answers him, eyes now focused on the apple tart she was making.

If panic wasn’t steadfastly building up inside Harry, he would be a little ( _a lot_ ) offended at how the main crew managed to replace him so easily. As it turns out though, panic _is_ steadfastly building up inside him. No time for sad contemplations of early withdrawals and nonexistent emotional attachments then. Woe is his life. 

He pokes Cher in her cheeks, pout back on his lips. “I’m going to die, Cher. Look at me while you’re talking at least.”

“Stop being so dramatic, Hazza. What is it you want from your old table, anyway? Fancy new promotion not quite doing it for ya?” She teases, looking up at him with a smirk.

He huffs, waving his hands in a noncommittal gesture, body slackening. “It’s alright, peachy. Just—you know. I may have forgotten to make dessert and supper starts in about thirty minutes,” Harry says, shaking his head. “And instead of doing something about it I’m here chatting with you. I’m a good personal chef, see?” 

Cher snorts at this, finishing up her apple tart. “You looking for your mountain load of croissant dough then?” She asks, turning to face him with her hands on her thin hips. 

Harry perks up at this, looks at her with hope in his emeralds. “You know where my Mountain of Ye Old Croissant Valor is?” He says, leaning towards her.

“Yeah, I saw one of the Royal Cooks take it a while back actually. Said it was a waste when Jonny was about to throw it out,” Cher explains, not even blinking an eye at what Harry has named his four batters of croissant, looking entirely too bored already at the conversation. She always did seem a bit lost inside her head.

Harry furrows his brows at the new information, squinting as Cher raises her eyebrows at him questioningly. “Who Royal Cook?” He asks, body already turning to where the RCs are located.

“Uhhhhm. A bloke, bit taller than you, skinny too,” she says with a thoughtful expression. She rolls her eyes at the blank face he gives, impatiently crossing her arms. “Has a permanent smirk plastered on his face?” She continues, sounding like a question rather than a statement, as if Harry should already know whom she’s describing.

Harry snaps his fingers at this, already having an idea who she means. “Got it! Thanks, Cherry!” He shouts as he runs to his new corner, laughs as he hears Cher’s shrill voice shouting back, “Stop calling me that!” 

For one who lacks time, he’s very calm. (He’s shriveling up with anxiety inside yes, but again, no one has to know.)

Once he’s moved the red curtains sloppily—they’re very thick, Harry notes, blinking as it slaps him on the face—he looks around the area, scans the faces of his fellow RCs. Harry knows he’s seen someone around here that perfectly conforms to Cher’s description.

He spots a tall, dark haired man working a few tables to his front, back towards him. He moves closer, a bit cautiously, afraid that he might come off as annoying to someone who was his superior only hours ago. He almost turns around to go back to his table, thinking of just not serving any dessert at all when the disappointed face of the prince flashes in his mind, pushing him to close the remaining gap between him and Smirk Man.

“Hi,” Harry says, standing beside Smirk Man.

Smirk Man jumps at this, not noticing Harry’s presence. “ _Holy_ —oh. It’s you,” the man says, looking at Harry, a smirk on his lips. _This one really earned his nickname_ , Harry thinks.

“It’s me,” he answers lamely, flailing his hands a bit. He shakes his head at himself and faces Smirk Man, the shout of “twenty five minutes till supper!” bringing him back to reality. “Hello. I’m Harry. I’d be a lot more polite but see, uhm, I’m kind of lacking time already and I forgot to make desserts for the prince and Cher over there told me that you have my Mountain of Ye Old Croissant Valor sooo,” he rambles, not a single breath in between his spiel.

Smirk Man looks at him oddly, a mutter of, “Mountain of Ye what?” directed at Harry.

He blinks owlishly at the man, it only taking a few seconds before Smirk Man, well,  _smirks,_ before he gestures toward his table. “You mean these?” 

Harry looks at the already-shaped-like-a-croissant croissant dough he made and brightens immediately. “Yes! Those!” He says, smile widening as he notes that the man already let the dough rise, egg wash glimmering against the poor candle light.

Smirk Man laughs, nodding his head at Harry. “I was just about to pop them in the oven, actually. Was going to eat it for later, but it’s yours,” He says to Harry, smirk still present. “Sorry for taking them.”

“It’s fine, it’s fine. Thank you for preparing them, though. You actually saved my arse now, thought I still had to shape and let them rise,” Harry smiles gratefully, hands already clutching the tray of croissants. He knows he’s being a bit too forward; if it were under normal circumstances, he would have thanked the other man profusely, acting a bit shy as he asks if he can take the tray already. But, the end justifies the means, as people say. And he really wants to end up with a pleased Louis so. Yeah.

“It’s no problem, mate,” Smirk Man says, holding a hand out to Harry. “I’m Nick, though. Nice to meet you.”

“M’Harry,” Harry says, moving the tray to his left hand as he shakes Nick’s hand. “Nice to meet you too! But I really must be going, a prince to serve and all that. Ta!” He says, feeling only a bit guilty at dismissing Nick so fast.

He doesn’t hear what the man says before he’s back at his own table, working about as he contemplates for a minute. He remembers how prince Louis said that the croissants needed to be sweeter, already moving to sprinkle a bit of sugar to the pastries. Once done, he places them securely in the oven and waits.

 

~*~

Harry is not nervous. He _isn’t_.

Well, okay. He’s trying _not_ to be.

He’s standing outside the doors of the great hall after meeting the royal food taster (Louis may be his least favorite royal but he won’t _poison_ him, god,) the cart of food prepared for the crown prince stagnant in front of him, handles clutched by a royal server. Mary is beside him, throwing him worried glances every five seconds or so. At first he accepts the care, the motherly air of the woman providing as a comfort. After about a hundred glances though, it becomes a bit of a nuisance.

“I’m fine, Mary,” he whispers to the woman quietly, not wanting to annoy the servers that are holding the other monarchs’ food in their hands. As told before, Harry had to come along as they served the food that he prepared the prince. The thought that he would have had to be surrounded by so many blue blooded people with just him thundered his heart, the reverence (and fear) he had for anything to do royal still burning in him. Luckily for him though, Mary also had to be present when the food was served, standing as a representative for the whole RCs, bar Harry of course.

“You don’t look fine, love,” Mary whispers back looking at his face, her own pinched. “You look like you’re going to be sick!”

“Thanks for that,” Harry replies, scrunching his face. Mary was about to reply when he hears something he hasn’t heard in a while.

The humongous pristine white doors of the great hall open, trumpets blasting symphonies in the air. 

Out of the whole three weeks that Harry’s been residing in the Claror palace, never once has he entered the great hall. It was one of those places that only restricted service people were allowed on normal days, the reason that this is where the royal family and the nobilities dine in being a good one.  He was informed before that on some special occasions, the great hall was opened for the service people to dine with their monarchs, groups of musicians playing lively tunes as the service men and women ate and talked about in merriment. It was a treat that the House Tomlinson gives the service people every once in a while, it serving as a form of thank you.

Because Harry was new though, he has yet been in one of these occasions so to see the great hall for the first time was a bit stupefying.

It was a big, big, _big_ room. Enormous. Humongous. Gigantic. Colossal. Just—big. It’s the largest room Harry has seen yet in the whole castle, and it certainly is one of the most beautiful ones too.

Ostentatious tapestries and silks lined the walls, the largest golden windows in the whole of the castle placed neatly there. Stone benches were situated underneath the said windows, a perfect place to sit and admire the undoubtedly spectacular view outside. The stone floors of the hall were fine and grey in color, matching the chromatic hues of the mosaic ceilings. Solbourne banners were _everywhere_ , Harry noted, proudly displayed hanging off of the pillars in the room. In the center of the large hall, a long and elegant wooden table was placed; it was covered in white linen, silver candelabras littered all over it, with large heavy looking chairs surrounding the surface. 

The six members of the royal House Tomlinson were sat there, the Queen Johannah sitting proudly at one end, her chair just a tad grander than the others’. After the whole entourage gives the customary bow, they come inside the great hall, moving forward and Harry sees Louis, sat at the right hand of his mother.

He’s changed his clothes from earlier, opting instead to wear a white dress shirt, a powder blue coat with fur grazing his shoulders becoming necessary as the sun set and the temperature dropped. He had on his coronet as well, the sapphires in it twinkling. The prince looked sufficiently bored; back slumping a little as he watches with droopy eyes as his mother converses with princess Charlotte. The soft glow of the candles placed near the sun prince bounces off of his face as he blinks slowly, long eyelashes evident and cheekbones highlighted with the shadow play. As per usual, he looks nothing short of perfect. Harry hates himself more for thinking this. 

Beside the prince, Harry recognizes Liam, the kind knight that interviewed him weeks ago. He's talking to, Zayn, the god-like friend that Louis had had around him when he and Harry met for a second time. The both of them seemed lost to the world, eyes twinkling as they fondly chat to each other. It’s a heart-warming thing to look at, honestly.

As the trumpets stopped eliciting noises, the family and the their two guests looked up from where their attention previously was. The entourage moving along to go to their places, acting as if this was a routine thing to do, which, Harry thinks belatedly, it actually was for them. These people did this three times a day, for everyday. They knew the process of serving and announcing and such and Harry was already starting to sweat as his eyes bulged, not knowing where to go. Mary only told him that he had to announce the meal to the prince, not going into detail about anything else.

Harry wanted to reach out to a quickly retreating Mary, the thought of humiliating himself in front of the most powerful and important people in the whole country petrifying. Just as he was, not knowing what else to do, he shoots a quick glance at the table and freezes.

Harry catches the sun prince’s eyes, twinkling ceruleans making him halt as he makes a move to blindly follow Mary who was now situated beside the queen. Harry’s own eyes widen as he sees how intense the prince was looking at him, heart beating faster. They stare at each other for who knows how long, although with how no one seems to notice anything amiss, not that long apparently, before the prince’s lips pull into a smirk.

If it was possible to glare with how wide Harry’s eyes were at the moment, he would. Louis condescending smirk was directed right at him, and he watches as the royal tilts his head a little to his left, an eyebrow rising, mouthing what Harry assumes to be a “right here.”

He doesn’t realize that he has moved, only coming to when rather than looking at Louis eyes from across the room, he has to only tilt his chin down a little to catch the prince’s gaze.

He hears Mary in the background, going off with the cordialities, following it immediately after with the description of the prepared food. He sees the man that was pushing his cart of meals, and quickly beckons him over. Once the small golden cart was beside him and at his disposal, he leans down a little to be within earshot, stops himself from closing his eyes as a whiff of the prince’s lavender scent engulfs him. It’s an aroma he wants to bathe in forever. ( _Which, wow, gross. Just kidding.)_

“Your Highness,” Harry says to the prince polite smile gracing his lips. His smile strains though as Louis grins at him from where he’s sat. Grin laced with something else. _Ugh_.

“Baker boy,” Louis singsongs, the bored look that possessed his face just mere minutes ago nowhere in sight, instead replaced with the damn amusement again. As if Harry was a joker, his entertainment for the time being. Again, _ugh_. “What have you prepared for me this lovely evening? I hope it’s edible because I am quite starved. I know you can’t bake but I certainly hope you can cook.”

Harry forces to smile more at this, exterior calm and collected. Internally though, he’s screaming, _“then why’d you promote me to become your personal chef then, you entitled twat.”_  For the sake of his head and how much he prefers it attached to the rest of his body however, he glances at the queen, sufficiently reminding himself that she’s only a few feet away. She certainly won’t appreciate it if a chef slapped his son, _the future king,_ silly, so he refrains.

The said future king apparently catches the glance that Harry threw, smirk widening as if he knows exactly what the other boy was just thinking. Twat.

Turning towards the server by the cart, Harry watches as he picks up the heavy golden plate with the Ove Plene, laying it out on the table directly in front of the royal.

“Your appetizer, Your Grace,” Harry states with a bow before standing straight, voice less loud than Mary’s but clear enough for Louis to hear. “Ove Plene, otherwise known as Venetian stuffed eggs, filled with fresh herb paste along with finely grated fresh cheese, dipped in egg yolk and fried till golden brown.”

He finishes; watching as Louis tilts his chin up, looking down on the appetizer like it’s a bloody peasant sitting on his lap. _Ugh_. Apparently, he deems it edible enough to actually eat, lifting a fork out of the many that’s aligned by the side of his plate, stabs an egg rather harshly and raises it to his mouth.

The prince’s eyes brighten the more he chews, little noises of appreciation coming out of his mouth. Harry tries his best to not look smug. Once everyone was finished with their appetizer, Harry signals for the server to take the now empty plate from where it was placed, the mand neatly returning it to the cart. He then lifts the second dish, the main course.

“For the main course, Roast of Kings, Your Grace,” Harry says, wanting to laugh at how Louis’ eyebrows shoot up at the name of the dish. “Simply, roasted lamb. Basted with a mixture of several fresh spices, placed in the oven until cooked.”

He could still smell the wonderful aroma of the lamb, and judging by how Louis’ looking at it, he could smell it too. The prince finishes it in an unbelievable speed, only stopping to take a few sips of wine from his goblet. Evidently, he wasn’t lying when he said he was starved. Good to know he’s capable of telling the truth.

Louis hums, smirking at Harry as he asks for the dessert. In return, the chef takes the empty plate himself instead of waiting for the server and places a new one in front of Louis, watches as mirth explodes from the Prince’s eyes as he catches the sight of his after meal sweets.

“A sugar coated croissant, Your Grace.”

 

~*~

 

The family and their guests sit a while and talk after they eat, pleasant conversations between everyone. After about thirty minutes however, the queen claps her hands, immediately silencing the whole table.

“Well, Mary, what can I say? I believe your crew gets better and better at your art of food making every after a meal,” the queen says, smiling softly at the head cook that is stood by her side. Different statements of approval chorus from the table, compliments given to Mary and the other RCs. Harry could see from where he’s stood how bright Mary’s chubby cheeks are, obviously flushing from all the attention.

He realizes then why Mary loves her job so much. How, even after almost spending her whole life cooking for the House Tomlinson, she still wouldn’t have it any other way. Harry sees how much the royals truly respect and admire her work, how thankful they are for serving quality food that fill their bellies each day.

“Thank you for all your kind words, My Queen, Your Highnesses,” Mary says, head bowed and lips stretched in a smile.

The queen merely nods before turning to Louis. “I see that you have acquired yourself a personal chef, Louis,” she says, glancing at Harry with kind eyes.  She jokingly says, “Why is that? Are you not satisfied with Mary’s work anymore, my love?”

Louis laughs and winks, _winks,_ at Mary all the while shaking his head. “No, never that, mother! Mary here would always have a special part in my heart,” he says, and laughs again as the head cook turns into an actual tomato. “It’s just that Harry here has, ah, interesting methods of coming up with a meal. Don’t you, Harry?”

_Interesting methods of coming up with a meal. Huh._

“Uhhhh,” Harry drones out, not knowing what to say. He bows his head at the queen though; the thing about his head staying connected to his body coming upfront his mind again.

The queen nods at Louis statement, giving a lazy gesture with her right hand, prompting the prince to comment on Harry’s work. He’s a bit excited at this, remembering the appreciative noises (Harry won’t call them moans, he will _not_ ) that emitted from Louis only moments ago. He expects to be praised, and a compliment from a royal is huge, the fact that it would be coming from _Louis_ only making it an even greater deal.

Louis turns to his side a bit to look at Harry, gazes at him with a remorseful look fixed on his face and _what? Why does he have that look on?_  

“Harry…” He drawls, lips turning into a pout. His eyes, though, Harry notices, are full of humor. The _bastard_. “Harry, I don’t know how to say this.”

Harry grits his teeth and watches on, watches as the frown on Louis face deepens and the laughter in his eyes brighten comically. Harry wants to punch him in his pretty face.

“Maybe a bit more practice would help?” Louis says, tilting his head gingerly like he actually is a bit saddened with the information he’s letting on. He’s a good actor Harry would give him that. “The appetizer was tasteless. The lamb a tad too dry, and by god, I don’t even want to start talking about dessert.”

Harry really, really wants to punch his face.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t able to satisfy you, Your Grace,” he says quietly, the thought that he’s been humiliated in front of these very much important people not sitting well in his gut. “Please do forgive me.”

He startles when he feels a hand rest on his upper arm, watches with owlish eyes as the prince squeezes. “Oh, it’s alright, Harry! Don’t put yourself down!” He says, looking directly into Harry’s eyes, insufferable smirk present on his lips again. “You still have everyday, for the rest of your life to make it up to me!”

 _God_ , does Harry want to punch him.

 

~*~

 

After supper, Harry and Mary walk silently back to the others, air a bit tense between them. They’ve just left the great hall right after the monarchs did, and were already almost to the kitchens when Mary breaks the silence.

“He’s not usually like that,” she says, voice barely above a whisper.

Harry snorts and grimaces, casting his eyes down to the floor, feeling more than a little bit dejected. He _knows_ he did good, is the thing. The recognition he didn’t manage to receive stinging him minutely. “What is he like then usually?” Harry says, expecting a litany of insults to pour out of the older woman’s mouth.

“He’s usual so—so _nice_ ,” Mary says instead, surprising Harry in the process.

“What?” He says, pushing Mary in a playful way, a bit too wary to actually put that much force into it. “You’re kidding.”

“No, I’m actually not,” she says with her brows furrowed. “Louis is one of the kindest souls to have ever graced this world, I am sure. He’s kind to _everyone_ , Harry. Literally everyone.”

“Everyone except me, apparently,” Harry mutters, his own eyebrows wrinkling. “You saw what he said in there. And you tasted the food I made before we left! You know they weren’t as horrid as he made it out to be.” 

He sighs deeply, looking up as they walk in synch. “Maybe it was because of the croissant thing the first time?” Harry asks, glancing as the woman shakes her head.

“I don’t think so,” she answers solemnly. “I once accidently poured grape juice all over his newly tailored dress shirt before, in front of the whole palace and he only rolled his eyes at me and laughed.” 

They make the last turn in silence, Harry not being able to provide a sufficient reply to Mary’s musings. Once they’ve opened and entered through the large wooden kitchen doors, Mary turns to him and pats his cheeks consolingly.

“There, there, deary. Always a tomorrow to do better in,” she says, the aura of a comforting mother blaring out of her, making Harry only miss his own that much more.

“Thanks, Mary,” he smiles sadly and the woman smiles in return before leaving for her quarters.

It’s late enough that Harry finds himself alone in the kitchens, everyone out doing whatever it is they do at night. He only plans to pick up the recipe book that Mary gave him earlier in the day, skim through the instructions and study his way around a bit.

Harry is nothing if not determined.

As he moves to where the book is neatly placed though, he hears a small cough to one side of the RCs area, a figure hidden under a blown out candle. “Took you long enough,” a raspy voice says loudly, and Harry internally groans, the whirlwind of the happenings that day infinitely tiring him out.

“Your Highness,” Harry says warily as Louis walks out of the shadows like some goddamn vampire. Maybe that is what he is though, but instead of blood, he sucks out Harry’s life force instead with his beautiful face and sharp angles and haughty demeanor. Ugh.

“I’ve been here for _ages_ ,” the prince whines, the impossibility of that sentence being true not lost on Harry since it has only been about ten minutes since he’s left the great hall himself.

“What is it you need of me, sire?” Harry asks politely, too worn-out to even remotely indulge the prince’s mockery.

At the tone of Harry’s voice, it seems as if Louis quickly sobers up. He steps closer, the arrogant demeanor gone in a matter of seconds. He has an apple in his hand, the green tinges of it a nice compliment to his golden skin. He takes a bite off of it and scrunches his face as he probably is hit with the sour taste. _You and that apple have a lot more in common than you may think_ , Harry muses, _pretty and shiny on the outside and totally sour on the inside._

“Listen,” the prince starts after he swallows the bite he took, looking up from where he was previously observing the green apple. “It was a lovely meal.”

Harry widens his eyes at that, surprised at what the prince just said, “What?”

“I said it was a lovely meal,” Louis repeats looking at Harry with something akin to fondness in his eyes. Which, weird. “One of the loveliest I had in a while, actually.”

He blinks owlishly at Louis for a few seconds before scrunching his eyebrows and frowning. “Then why?” He trails of, right hand gesturing to where the doors of the kitchens are, indicating what happened in the great hall.

At this, Louis shy bearing immediately takes a 180-degree turn, coming back to his arrogant-but-only-around-you self. He squints his eyes at Harry observing him before he takes a bite out of his apple again, swallows and talks. “Couldn’t let you have the satisfaction, could I? I mean,” he says, halting and propping himself up on Harry’s working top. Harry glares at this, he tries not to, really he does, but gods, Louis was infuriating. He catches an upward twitch to Louis mouth though as the man sees his intense glare. “This is a punishment,” he continues, smirk on his mouth. “What kind of punishment would it be if you ended up happy?”

He ignores the question, knowing full well that it was rhetorical. “Why are you telling me that ‘it was a lovely meal’ then?” Harry asks still glaring at the prince. Fuck the connection between his head and his body, this monarch was getting on his nerves and he’s tired and homesick and, god forbid, _lonely_. 

Louis scoffs, tossing the half eaten apple somewhere towards his back. “Zayn made me do it,” he says, rolling his eyes. “Says that you deserve at least a thanks or something. And that I was being a dick but, whatever. I'm a prince, I'm allowed to do that. I said I didn’t want to make your head big, but you know, I’m a good friend to Zayn.”

Harry purses his lips, still glaring at Louis. “So this your punishment then? You’re just going to keep on humiliating me everyday at every meal?”

“Oh please,” Louis scoffs, appraising Harry from head to toe. “You _really_ think so little of me?” He says as he hops down from where he was currently propped up on. He closes the short distance between him and Harry, cocking his hip as he looks up at the other boy. “This is only the beginning, baker boy,” he says grinning mischievously before pressing a kiss, _a_ _kiss_ fucking _hell_ , to Harry’s cheek, running out of the kitchens before Harry could even blink and regroup.

What in god’s name is Harry getting himself into? Louis was so hard to figure out. Hell, it's only been less than a handful of meetings and Harry's head already hurts from the incredible mood swings the royal has. He goes from hot to cold in a blink of an eye, affectionate giggles and fond laughs turning into appraising looks and haughty eyerolls.

So fucking confusing.

~*~

_but I've got my mind made up this time, cause there's a menace in my bed, can you see his silhouette?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Got the idea for the recipes here: http://www.medievalcuisine.com !! I didn't copy and paste though but a little credit is due. Kudos and comments are welcomed xx


	3. iii.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Louis is cruel. That's it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was updating for the sake of updating. I'm really sorry it's been so long :( Anyway, this is just a short filler chapter. I promise to make it longer the next time and give more HarryandLouis interactions. There's still a lot to happen so yeaaaah. 
> 
> Btw, if anyone's interested in being a beta, hit me up! It's hard to proofread something when it's long. anyway, hope you enjoy, comments and kudos are loved. xx

_speak to me,_ _my victory slips and holds defeat_

_speak and may the world come undone_

_will you write on the wall tonight_ _and hope that this is the last time?_

_\- Speak Easy by Mansionair_

~*~

Fuck the monarchy. Fuck the monarchy. _Fuck the monarchy._

Harry doesn’t know how long it’s been since he began the grueling task at hand; doesn’t know how many hours he has been crouched down on the floor of the main passage hall, sponge in hand, scrubbing away at the collected grime nestled between the crevices.

It’s only been three days since the humiliating scene in the great hall with the crown prince, and he’s almost certain that he already has worked more than all of the service people _combined_. He’s been scrubbing, washing, raking, cooking, plowing, and such virtually nonstop, only taking a few minutes here and there to take a break, and eat, sleep only coming in short bursts in the wee hours of the morning.

In short, Harry is _exhausted._  Even his bones feel like they're tied to stones, dragging him down.

When he thought that his then assigned punishment was extremely taxing – what with the prince’s repugnant attitude towards him – he, apparently, could not have been more wrong. It was _worse_. 

He hasn’t even seen Louis that much, well, less than he certainly expected. He thought that he would be in the constant presence of the monarch; thought it was implied that getting impressively humiliated every single hour was part of the punishment. Yet, as it turns out, Louis would only be present during meals when Harry served his food and in turn, he gave his still atrocious feedbacks.

 _Well_ , Harry thought, _he is confusing, yes, and maybe many more abundantly awful things, but he sure is not a liar._

He held true to what he said to Harry; him being assigned as his personal chef was only the beginning. It became glaringly obvious to Harry after the 28th toilet that he was forced to clean that it seemed as if the monarch has made it his own duty to ensure that Harry’s life became hell on earth.

He was made to clean the whole main passage hall alone today, and considering the fact that it wasn’t exactly the smallest hall in the palace, it took rather a lot out of his time. He wasn’t even a cleaner, for Sun god’s sake.

 “Fuck the fucking monarchy, _fuck_ ,” Harry mutters vehemently whilst trying to scrub away a particularly stubborn speck of dirt.

“Eloquent,” someone suddenly says behind him making him turn and scramble, knee hitting the wall with a loud _bang_.

“Ouch, _fuck_ ,” Harry hisses, frown deepening as he hears that obnoxious laugh ring in the air.

“Harold, honestly. You’re a mess,” Louis utters, looking down on Harry’s sat form. He has a smirk dancing on his lips, hip cocked on one side, the Epaulettes strapped to his dress shirt hanging off of his shoulders.

His eyes are still the brightest and most beautiful shade of blue Harry has ever seen.

Harry forces himself to look away. He _hates_ him. 

“My deepest apologies, Your Highness,” he starts, eyes trained on the well-polished shoes incasing Louis albeit small feet. “It’s been a rather tough day.”

  _All because of you_ , Harry doesn’t say.

The silence that hangs around them after this clearly indicates that the prince has caught on to what Harry wanted to utter. Harry merely keeps his eyes cast on the floor, dutifully waiting for whatever wretched words he expects the prince to say.

At this very moment, though, Harry can’t help but be reminded that this is where he belongs, and rightfully so. Kneeled down before the crown prince, showing his respects. He prompts himself that he deserves all the punishment that Louis deems necessary of him, that he, as a mere servant, had no right to disrespect a monarch.

Not for the first time does he wish he was home.

“Have you eaten?” Louis says suddenly, voice tinged with something Harry couldn’t describe.

He snaps his eyes upwards to search for the prince’s, brows furrowed. “Sorry?”

“I asked if you’ve eaten,” the crown prince says, rolling his eyes. The fact that he can’t look directly at Harry’s eyes gives away the haughty demeanor he was aiming for.

“Uh... no I haven’t, sire,” Harry answers, trying to catch Louis gaze.

The said lad hums noncommittally and makes a ‘stand up’ motion with his dainty (so very small) right hand. “Well, come on then. Let’s go,” he says, already turning to move towards the exit.

Harry stares off as Louis moves for the door only jolting when the royal exits dutifully. He scrambles off of the floor, and jogs to where Louis has exited to catch up on the prince.

“May I ask where we are going, Your Highness?” Harry states as he walks obediently beside the striding prince.

“You told me you haven’t eaten,” Louis simply says, glancing at the other boy. “Aren’t you hungry?”

“Well, yes, sir. But I have a job—” Harry tries to say, hand gesturing to the door they’ve just exited from.

“Yes, well. Now you have a new job,” the prince utters, cutting Harry off. “Time to eat,” he continues, grinning all the while, eyes crinkled as he side eyes Harry, waiting for a response.

Harry looks at him doubtfully and nods, following as the prince turns and climbs the grand staircases.

He is bound by law to obey whatever the man says, after all.

~*~

He could smell the delicious aroma of good food even before he enters the white gold speckled doors.

When Louis pushes open a familiar entryway, Harry literally had to stop to take it all in. There was a wide table placed in front of the bookshelf, about ten different dishes placed atop of it. Chicken and lamb, beef and some stew, even some pudding and sweets, all set to eat. 

His mouth was already watering at the sight; stomach grumbling as he remembers that he hasn’t eaten anything but a small piece of his ration bread that day.

Turning, he spots Louis sitting on the huge bed, bottom lip pulled between his teeth as he studies Harry. He makes a faint nod of his head and Harry moves hesitantly towards the table and frowns down at the array of food in front of him.

“Go on then, you said you were hungry,” Louis mutters from where he is, still keenly watching Harry’s every move.

Harry looks at him, eyes squinting as he sees the apparent and uncharacteristic nervousness the prince was harboring. “Did you poison this?” He says, as the realization comes to him.

It was impossible that the prince was being, gods forbid, _kind_. Sure, he is the picture of perfection and goodness to every other person in the universe, but after the time Harry has spent in the palace, it has become common knowledge to all that knows both him and the crown prince that Harry was the exception to this rule. It was understood that, although the prince still was unbelievably good at heart, at some point, a person would come that he was bound to hate. A person namely, Harry Styles.

So as it is, Harry only saw it fitting that after all the heinous acts that the prince had generously showered upon him the past few days, it was side eye worthy that Louis was treating him to a feast. 

Judging by the affronted look on the monarch’s face, though, Harry’s logic was apparently irrational.

“Pardon me?” Louis says, voice an octave higher, eyebrows shooting up.

“I’m sorry, Your Highness, if I have offended you. It’s just that—you know, this is a bit out of character,” Harry says with his head bowed, gesturing a hand towards the table.

Only silence greets his statement.

After a few moments, though, the prince huffed from where he sat and stood up. He walked towards Harry and, in one swift motion, grabbed the boy’s left wrist and dragged him to a seat.

“Wha—,” Harry tried to say but was cut short when Louis forcefully pulled out a chair and, with equal pressure, gripped his shoulders and sat him down.

“Just shut up and eat, Harry.”

~*~ 

They ate silently, the clink of well-polished silver utensils against porcelain plates the only sound heard in the room. Louis was sat across the table from Harry, chewing small bites of chicken, face calm and peaceful. Every once and a while he would grab his goblet and would take a sip, humming at the crisp taste of finely aged wine.

Harry watched all of this cautiously as he ate his own meal. When he first sat down, he had waited for the prince to start eating, only taking food from the dishes the prince took from as well. He was wary and scared, the buzz of possible poisoning still thrumming in his ear. Now though, after about half an hour of slow chewing, he was willingly taking large parts of lemon chicken, staled steak and everything else that caught his eye. Obviously the feast wasn’t at all poisoned, Louis was quite crazy, true, but surely not crazy enough to poison himself for the sake of killing Harry as well.

His thoughts drifted away as he munched on a particularly well seasoned bowl of mashed turnip and potatoes, a small noise of delight erupted from his mouth as he took a bite of garnished mushrooms.

Harry might have missed the quiet chuckle that emitted from Louis had he not been so very subconsciously aware of the prince’s every move. He lifted his head and looked at the royal. Louis face was soft, a small smile playing on his lips. He had his head rested on his hands, elbows countering every etiquette lesson as it was placed atop the oak table. His own plate was empty, the utensils he had used laid discarded on the side. He was watching with kind eyes holding something akin to fondness and Harry could feel his cheeks blushing at the unusual gaze.

“Thank you for eating with me, Harry. I know I haven’t been the kindest to you but well. Thank you,” Louis said, head tilting to the side.

“Oh, uhm,” Harry stuttered, unsure of what to say. He had no idea why the prince was thanking him; he was the one after all who was treated to a marvelous feast. It was, in all honesty, the best meal that he’s ever had. Growing up in a poor family, this would never have happened had the prince not given him the chance. “I think I should be the one giving gratitude here, Your Highness.”

The prince shook his head and sat straight in his chair. He reached for his goblet once more and took a sip. After, he curiously studied the gems that decorated the piece in his hand. “I went to the kitchens a while ago and saw that you weren’t there,” the prince said, eyes still trained on the goblet. “I asked around and saw Mary. She told me you were, _ahhh_ , otherwise preoccupied?”

“Uhm, yeah I had a few chores to take care of actually,” Harry slowly said and saw how Louis cringed, his face surprisingly guilt ridden.

“A few, yeah right,” Louis whispered before shaking himself. He was still studying his goblet, eyes averted from where Harry was. “Anyway, she told me you haven’t eaten in a while and since you wouldn’t have been _‘otherwise preoccupied’_ if it weren’t for, you know, a  _few_ chores, I had this prepared,” he said as he gestured towards the table with his free hand.

“Uhm,” Hary eloquently trailed. “Thank you, Your Highness, but you really shouldn’t—”

“Just Louis,” the prince said as he cut Harry off finally turning to face the boy. His face was calm while Harry looked at him with wide blinking eyes, expression shocked. “When it’s just the two of us, I’m just Louis,” he finished, giving Harry the smallest almost shy smile.

Harry, needless to say, was at a loss for words. This was the crown prince of one of the most powerful kingdoms in the whole continent, probably even the world. This was the person who actually seemed to hate his guts, the person who gave him a mountain load of work and teased and tormented him consistently. This was _Louis. And he was being nice._

He was confused and very much so. The moodiness of the royal dumbfounded him, _what had changed his mind,_ Harry thought, _from hating me to suddenly being kind, stripping away all the necessary, lawful formalities_.

The second part of what Louis said then caught up to him. _When it’s just the two of us._

 _Does that mean anything? Does it mean we’re, gods forbid, friends?_ Harry didn’t know. All that he did know was that the prince was still giving him a shy smile, expectant expression plastered on his face.

“Okay,” Harry tried to say, although even to his own ears, it sounds like more of a breathy exhalation of the word. He cleared his throat and mentally shook himself as well. “Okay,” he said again, voice clearer and steadier. “Thank you, Louis.”

Smile widening, Louis lifted his goblet once more.

His eyes were looking at nothing but Harry’s.

 ~*~ 

Harry woke up to the sound of chirping birds, the sun hitting his face and Niall loudly singing some Irish folk song.

This has become a routine for them every morning: the tinkling sound of chirping birds, Niall waking him up one way or another, Harry throwing a pillow into the other boy’s face and Niall’s answering mad cackle that usually made him grumble.

Today though, that cackle was welcomed. Instead of the regular pillow throwing, Harry remained on his bed, laying face up. He was smiling, completely serene and at peace. He let the boisterous laugh of his roommate resonate through their small quarters, he too was happy and other people being joyous around him lifted his spirits up even more.

Niall, apparently noticing the lack of pillows hitting his face, looked at Harry. “Ey, what’s up with you? Why are you smiling?” He asked, falling back down on his bed as he dried his freshly washed hair with a towel.

Niall was an early riser and happily at that. He had said that he loved his job, loved taking care of his new ‘friends’ at the stables every morning. Harry wondered then what kind of friends he had that needs taking care of. When he visited his roommate at his working station and was met with numerous horses that Niall had all baptized with new names though, he didn’t think he still needed to ask.

Turning his head to face Niall, Harry snorted. “Why are you bothered by me smiling when you wake up like the sun’s been shoved up your ass every morning?”

As expected by Harry, Niall grinned widely, not having been offended by one bit at what he had said.

Harry really loved Niall.

“Because, Harry,” the stable boy said matter-of-factly whilst lacing up his boots. “You hate mornings. And you’ve been a grumpy cunt this past week, so it’s kind of surprising to see you happy.”

Harry sighed at this, looking back, he had been kind of grumpy. He was tired from all the work that he’s been unceremoniously handed and the lack of sleep that he had had as well as the measly food he ate really did nothing to lift his spirits. He rubbed his face with his hands, wiping away any trace of sleep, and made to sit down on his bed.

“Sorry bout that, by the way,” he said to Niall, hands still on his face. “Was just really exhausted.”

At this, the blonde boy’s face softened, “I know, it’s fine, mate. Really,” Niall answered. “You’re looking a lot less tired now though.”

“Yeah, I slept well actually,” Harry said, thinking about how he had went straight to his and Niall’s shared room to sleep after his meal with Louis. And—

Louis.

He smiled again, remembering why he was in such a good mood. After they ate, he and Louis had talked more. He had been able to tell the prince things about himself, his small family back home and thus the reason why he was here. The prince in turn told him of the intricacies of the palace life. He was very interested in the things that Louis told him, although he was already familiar with how the palace worked, yes, but this was _different_ and entirely so. Harry knows about how the Claror palace worked as a cook, a serviceman, a _servant._ Louis was talking about how the royalty part of the castle functioned, sharing stories about the nobilities and handling lands, telling him about his duties as the future king.

He then noted how the prince’s voice became a bit somber whenever talking about the throne but he ignored it, thinking that it wasn’t any of his business. They conversed and laughed so much that Harry was surprised to note how it was that it was completely dark outside Louis’ chambers, the sun having set what could have been hours ago.

Regretfully, Harry said goodbye to the prince. He had wanted to stay but he didn’t want to overstay his welcome, still a bit shaken from the complete 360 that his and Louis relationship had turned. He had thanked Louis again with a timid but genuine smile that the prince returned.

Harry went to sleep last night the happiest he had been in a while.

He looked at Niall now, the boy who had become one of his closest friends in the three and a half weeks of his stay here. He contemplated whether to tell Niall about what happened between him and Louis, but ultimately decided against it.

He’d tell all about it to Niall soon, just. Just not now. He wanted to keep it to himself for now, that little bit of joy was all his.

He smiled at Niall and got out of the bed. The other boy quirked his eyebrow at this since Harry wasn’t due in the kitchens for at least a few hours. It was still too early and the crown prince ate his breakfast a lot later than the rest of his family.

“Where’r you goin?” Niall asked the curly headed lad and was surprised as he got nothing but a pat on his head and a, “It’s a beautiful day, Niall!” shouted back at him from the door.

~*~

Harry was in the kitchens happily planning on Louis breakfast food after his usual stroll in the gardens. During breakfast, it was only him, Louis and Liam, who Harry then realized was the royal’s protector knight, that were inside the dining hall. As it was, Louis woke up late, just a few hours short of noon, giving Harry the chance to sleep in everyday.

Right now though, the prospect of seeing the prince again after their getting to know last night excited him too much. He hummed as he set about to do his work, all alone in the place allotted for the royal cooks.

He browsed through one of Mary’s cookbooks, and chose the most appealing sounding meal, and began his cooking. After an hour or so, his dish was prepared, a simple batch of well kneaded bread that Mary had prepared a day before, a good creamy soup, and some thick sliced, well seasoned mutton with sautéed vegetables at the side. It was quite heavy, but Louis himself told him that he liked it that way.

Looking at the time, Harry saw that he was almost due for the dining hall. He loaded everything up on the fancy cart like he had the first time and every other time the prince had eaten, carefully placing and covering them after.

As he pushed the cart towards the hall, he still can’t help but smile. He was just really happy. Harry was the type of person to get along with almost everyone, and he did pride himself for this. His mother once told him that his way with people was fascinating; that everyone he met seemed to like him immediately.

He hadn’t realized it before, but the way the prince treated him affected him very much. At first, he thought it was just the pressure of all the work and the new environment that made his mood foul. Now, though, seeing it as it is, after reconciling with the prince, he felt a thousand times lighter and better. He tried to hide how deeply offended he was, that the beautiful prince who seemed to like everyone hated _him_. Of course, he knew that it was because of his own rude actions when they first met, but it still stung.

Standing in front of the huge doors of the dining hall, one of the guarding knights that stood there nodded at him and he nodded back. “Harry,” the knight greeted warmly.

“Greg,” Harry acknowledge, giving the tall man a smile.

The door was opened then, and Harry strode in, pushing the cart along with him. He saw the prince sat on his usual seat, on the right hand of where the queen dines. He was clad in his riding clothes, similar to the one he wore the first time Harry ever saw him in the kitchens.

 _The dark and obviously expensive overcoat that was draped over his shoulders was beautiful_ , Harry thought, _but not as much as Louis himself was._

Liam was stood beside the prince, the shine of his armor luminous. He smiled at Harry before stepping aside to make way for the cart that was being pushed.

Harry turned to look at the sun prince then and gave himself a few short seconds to take it all in. Now that he didn’t have to spend his time imagining the creative ways he could inflict pain on the royal, he had nothing left to distract him from admiring his face. It was just a really perfect face, okay, and he couldn’t help himself.

He gave a short bow as, friend or not, it was still customary and is the law. “Good morning, Your Highness,” Harry said brightly, grin wide as he waited for Louis’ reply.

The prince merely grunted in return, and lazily waved his hand in a 'get on with it' gesture. Harry blinked twice, blaming the morning for the prince’s reaction, and cleared his throat. He introduced his dish, and placed them on the table for the prince to eat.

The royal ate it as he did usually, savoring each bite and nodding or humming at times. After minutes of silence, the prince finished his chewing and wiped his face with a napkin. He stood up abruptly, surprising not only Harry but Liam as well.

As he turned to walk out the door, the said knight by his side in an instant, he stopped and looked at Harry.

“I hated it, do better next time,” the prince said coldly before moving towards the door, leaving Harry dumfounded, confused, and gods, _hurt_.

He doesn't know how long he stands there after the prince has left, the constant thought in his head keeping him alight.

_but you asked me to call you Louis._


	4. iv.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Finally got a round to updating! I think this is the longest chapter yet, so that's good, isn't it? The drama is only starting, trust me, I still have a long way to go with this story. This is still unedited! I'd probably proofread in a few days or so, I just have no time now, but I wanted to get the chapter up since it's been too long since I last updated.
> 
> A few points necessary to make:  
> 1\. Christmas in this universe does not exist! The people of Solbourne have different, unspecified gods. This is why they only celebrate Louis' birthday on December and nothing else.  
> 2\. I didn't show that much scenes where Harry is working in the kitchens as I thought it would be quite tedious to read, as well as to write, if it was repetitive.
> 
> That's about it for this chapter! If you have any questions about the little universe I've made up, the comment box is always open. To all those who gave their kudos/saved this work to their bookmarks/commented, and/or even just gave the story the time of the day, thank you! I appreciate it. x 
> 
> Have a chat with me _[here](http://www.royalarrie.tumblr.com)_! I don't bite. I think wahhh. (+i would love to have many betas to help me with this work) Anyway, on with the story!

_It's strange, but I don't need space from you and every single thing you do, I like_

_i've been chased; maybe I just knew I had to wait for you_

_draw a knife and carve a little space for you, it feels nice_

_*[It's Strange](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R65s3mPGeQk)\- Louis The Child*_

~*~

Harry went to bed that night with a jumbled heart and an equally confused mind. He just did not _understand_ what kept on happening between him and Louis. How was it that the prince was so kind a moment, and the next, it seemed like he hated Harry?

His bewilderment only grew when he did not see the prince during dinner, having been informed that he and Sir Zayn would be away for the whole day until the next. It made him think about whether or not the royal was avoiding him; was it possible that he was ashamed of what he did, of how he had picked and dropped Harry? But, as soon as this thought would enter his mind, every time, Harry would wipe it out as fast as possible.

 _Who am I for_ him _to actually give a valiant effort at avoidance?_

He mulled it over all throughout the day, thinking and probing, but never going anywhere with his thoughts. Now, sat on top of his small bed, with the nighttime chill just beginning to muzzle its way in his and Niall’s shared quarters, he could feel the ache in his head begin to blossom from all the overthinking he has been doing. 

This is how Niall’s finds him. The stable boy enters the room just like how he does every end of the day: loudly, a grin plastered on his face, and some stray hay clinging to his hair and body. This time, though, instead of bounding over to where the baker boy is and retelling him stories of his day, he stops abruptly by the door at the sight of his roommate.

“Why are you pouting?” Niall asks, settling himself beside Harry as he toes of his customary riding boots.

Harry heaves a huge breath, draws it out a bit, before exhaling loudly. He pouts as he says, “I’m not pouting.”

The blonde boy rolls his eyes at this and lies back on Harry’s bed. He wiggles his toes and feels the frostiness of the floor seep through his wool socks, onto his tired feet. “Sure, you’re not. You just have really fat lips, ‘s all. Forgot,” he says sarcastically, while looking up at the cracked ceiling of their quaint room.

The other boy snorts at this before lying back besides Niall. He rests his hands behind his head, purposely elbowing the other boy in the process. “You’re mean, Niall,” he groans. “I am already sad and melancholic, and you _insult_ me?”

The stable boy cackles, shoving Harry’s elbow as it continues to hit his face. After his success, they lay side by side, calmly observing the dreary gray ceiling like it was the sky with the stars, constellations, and other infinities in it.

After a few moments, though, Niall, who could never handle quite such a serious silence, closes his eyes and sighs. “Seriously, Haz. What’s wrong?”

It took a few beats before Harry spoke, but when he did, it was nothing but a whisper. “Louis.”

Niall opened his eyes, and turns his face towards Harry. “Louis?” He asks, unsure.

This time, it’s Harry who shuts his lids, a pained expression on his face. He nods in agreement, “Louis,” he confirms and says again.

“Like the prince Louis? Or are there any other Louises around here?”

“Nope,” Harry says, obnoxiously popping the _p_. (It aggravates Niall when he does that, Harry knows this. He does it anyway. Niall slaps his face.) “The prince Louis, yeah.”

“What’s wrong with him, then?” The blonde boy asks, sitting up. “Royal chicken doesn’t taste to his liking this week? Got a bit of mud on his shoes? Oh! There was a seed in his cherry, wasn’t there?” Niall says this in a mocking tone, laughing at his own antics.

Harry frowns, though. Although he knows that he shouldn’t really be defending the royal, after all his hot and cold treatment and general attitude towards Harry, he couldn’t help but feel undignified on behalf of the prince. It’s strange, the feeling.

“He’s not like that,” Harry states, and because of his tone, Niall sobers up.

“Then what’s wrong if he isn’t being a bloody bitch?”

“Niall!” Harry exclaims, scandalized, his eyes wide, looking at the door as if to make sure no one's heard them. 

“What?” Niall asks, crossing his arms over his chest. “Don’t think I don’t know why you’re never around. Rumor has it that you’ve become his new favorite _pet_.”

“There are rumors?” Harry questions, and at Niall’s knowing nod, he groans, scrubbing his face with his hands. “This is so bloody frustrating. All of it.”

“Gods, Harry. Again, for the last time, _what_ is wrong?” The stable boy prods with a roll of his eyes. “You’re so fuckin’ dramatic.”

Harry glares at him from where he still rests on the bed, before sitting up. He scrubs a hand on the back of his neck, feeling a bit sheepish. He and Niall had become close friends over the month that he’d been working in the palace, what with having to be constantly with each other even if it was just the early morning’s, or late at nights. He like the way the other boy was so very carefree and exuberant. He reminded Harry of Ed, which helps to lessen his homesickness.

Yet, even with their newfound bond, he still had not had the heart to tell Niall all the current events that went on between him and the prince. At first, it was solidly because he did not want to trouble the other lad, who was surely busy enough handling numerous royal stallions. Then, when Harry had thought that he and Louis were surely becoming good friends, he specifically did not mention anything to the other boy, wishing to keep the fact to himself for a while.

Now, though, with the knowledge that the stable boy apparently knew something was going on between him and the prince, Harry deemed that it was about time to tell his good friend. 

“He’s kind of been an asshole,” Harry says, and Niall nods, as if expecting this. “But not?” He lamely finishes. Niall raises a brow, an unimpressed look on his face. “Are you asking me or telling me?”

Harry grunts, and pouts again.

“Gods almighty, alright, stop pouting. Your lips are disturbing,” Niall grimaces while Harry squawks indignantly. “What’s he done then?”

Harry, with a hand carefully feeling his _not_ disturbing lips, (thank you very much, Niall), straightens, and tells the story from the beginning.

~*~

Niall looks like a tomato, Harry thinks. He probably has become one.

By the end of the whole story between him and Louis, the stable boy has become so red from laughter that Harry isn’t sure if he’s still breathing.

“Mate!” The foreign man exclaims, still cackling.

“I don’t get what’s so funny, Niall,” Harry grumbles. “This is a distressing situation.”

“It’s funny, Haz, because you are whipped,” Niall resolutely states, nodding his head as he finishes his last bout of laughter, still a red in the face.

“What? No! I’m not,” Harry huffs, shaking his head all the while. “I hate him,” he calmly states.

“Not from what you’ve just told me,” Niall says. “And from what I’ve gathered, you’ve been a pouty mess because he’s not around, and the last time you saw him, he ignored you, yes?”

Harry thinks about lying for a moment, about shaking his head and making up a story about why he’s been troubled lately. But, looking at Niall’s knowing expression, he thinks the other boy already is aware of the true answer anyway. He sighs heavily, and nods his head.

Niall hums, and nods along. “Whipped.”

Harry hangs his head down, grimacing all the while. “Whipped,” he whispers morosely.

“Like cream,” Niall smiles. Harry hits him the head.

~*~

Harry wakes up the next day to a rag hitting him on the face.

“Harry! Wake up!” Mary says, shaking his shoulder, striking him again.

“Mary? Wha--?” He tries to ask, groggily noticing that Niall is still storing on the bed beside his.

“The prince would be back any minute! He’s sent someone to notify you that he wants a private breakfast in his lounge,” Mary whispers hurriedly, setting down the oil lamp on Harry’s rickety bedside table.

“It’s so early,” Harry groans, pointing to the window where it could be seen that it’s still very dark outside, the sun having not appeared yet. 

“Get to work, dear,” The old woman says with a pitying smile, patting Harry’s disheveled curls before walking out the door.

 ~*~

The placidly smiling angels engraved on the ornate, golden doors to Louis’ quarters makes Harry feel like he's being mocked.

He’s extremely anxious at the moment because of several things. For one, he wasn’t sure about what the prince was in the mood to eat, so he whipped up something extravagant, with turkey, potatoes, soup, and the like, going all out as to impress the royal. Another reason was, in all honesty, he hasn’t realized how much he’s wanted to see the prince after their last encounter. He knows that he’s been glum the whole day yesterday, but in his mind, it was because of how the prince seemed to not care about Harry’s feelings at all. Hot and cold seemed to be his thing, and Harry was not used to the changing touches at all.

Now, though, he thinks that he’s been glum, because he might have actually _missed_ the prince’s presence. Even when they didn’t see each other all that much during the previous month of Harry’s stay in the palace, and also all throughout the chores given to him by the prince, even then, Harry could still _feel_ him around.

It was the service people’s entertainment to always gossip about the royal family and the nobles, because of this, even before he _knew_ that Louis was the prince, he still felt the ghost of him amongst the stories of his great skills and other wonderful attributes. When he did find out, he still could pinpoint the aura of the sun boy while doing the work assigned by him. He felt the bubble of brightness that accompanied the man, and it was annoying to him then, but admittedly, it always felt warm.

The monarch would always find a way to know about Harry’s whereabouts and what work he was dealing with off of Louis’ list then, and he made it his duty to drop by every single instance he could, just in few short seconds at a time, to cheekily drop a rude and mocking comment here and there.

With the contrast of how the past month had been to how his previous day turned out, Harry closes his eyes at the thought that’s dawning on him. He missed the prince terribly, and it’s just been a few short hours of a day.

Yet, he doesn’t have the chance to dwell more on this, though, since before he knows it, the huge doors are being opened, and he’s being ushered in.

He takes a deep breath, pushes the heavy cart containing the meals, and enters the quarters.

~*~

The beautiful quarters, although Harry has been there a few times already, still doesn’t cease to amaze him each time. The extravagance, wealth, and glimmer of the room still takes his breath away every single time.

He stands still for a second before hurrying to lay down the food that he’s prepared over onto the table set out in the lounge of Louis quarters. He’s been informed by Mary that all the rooms of the nobles and the monarchs were like this, with a private lounge where they could eat and hold guests, a bathroom to clean themselves up, and a bedroom to rest in. The only difference between them is that the more important you are, the grander your room is.

Noticeably, with how Louis’ quarters alone seem like they could fit about a few dozen people, and with the addition of a huge, beautiful balcony, everyone is aware of how important the prince is. 

His hands shake a little as he arranges the meals to their specific places. There are a lot of dishes, as he has been asked to prepare for two. Harry reasons that it must be for the prince’s god of a friend, Zayn, and the pang of jealousy at the thought of how close the two must be burns in Harry’s gut. He ignores it, though. Knowing that he has no right, for he is a servant and not a friend.

After he finishes, he signals to a service person standing by that he’s done with the preparations. The woman, Eleanor, one of Louis’ personal maids, scurry off to fetch the said prince. 

While he waits, he could feel the sweat on his palms, and on his brow. It’s late November already, the last of the autumn leaves are falling and the winter chill is slowly, yet completely capturing the whole kingdom of Solbourne. Still, even with the continuous drop of the temperature, Harry still feels the heat running through him at the prospect of seeing the prince. He is apprehensive, yes, but strangely warm all the same.

Looking at the table, he sets about to move a few platters to make them look a bit more presentable, when the doors of the bedroom open, and out comes Louis.

He looks marvelous, as per usual. His hair is getting long now, the wisps of it reaching the lowest part of his nape, and it frames his face beautifully. He’s wearing a long, white overcoat, clipped just below his chin with a sea blue crystal, right at the middle of his collarbones. Under that, he has a light, powder blue tunic on, complementing his eyes, and making his tan skin look as bright as the sun.

Louis smiles, snapping Harry out of his extensive ogling. Who could blame him, though, when the prince always has an impeccably put together wardrobe, and looks even better than all the deities on their pedestals?

Harry bows his head, blush set high on his cheeks. It only occurs to him then, that Louis smiled at him. He clears his throat and catches a peek of the prince through his eyelashes. “Good morning, Your Majesty.”

Louis squints his eyes at Harry for a moment, smile still gracing his lips, and nods shortly after a while. “How was your sleep, Harold?”

His voice was a dainty tinkle, a soft breeze; after not hearing it for only a short day, Harry feels nothing but refreshed. He blinks once, twice, and nods back. “It was well, sire. Your own?”

The prince’s nose scrunches ( _cutely_ , _adorably_ , _fluffily_ , Harry’s brain provides) “It was as great as many a good night's sleep is. Anyway,” Louis exclaims stepping closer to Harry. “What is with the formalities, Curly Brain?”

The nickname, although not unheard of, produces a surprised giggle to erupt from Harry’s lips, and he tamps it down with the back of his hand hurriedly.

 _Giggling,_ he thinks mortified, _I’m giggling in front of the prince who may, or may not hate me. Nice._

Louis, on the other hand, seems delighted at yielding the sound from Harry. His smile is wider, turning into a full on grin, and he winks at the baker boy in return.

Harry, although happy, is very much confused. He really does not understand the prince all that much: kind, yet cold, mean, but nurturing, and vice versa; he’s never the same person after an encounter.

The cook doesn’t want to look a gift horse in the mouth, though, so he rids all worry from his mind and decides to appreciate the moment for what it is. And it was good.

He motions towards the table, and bows his head again. “Here’s the meal you’ve asked for, Sire. I’ve made sure to prepare a multitude, as I wasn’t aware of what it was you fancied at the moment.”

The sun boy, sun _prince_ , looks toward the table, and hums approvingly. “It looks like a feast fit for a king, Harry. Thank you,” He says, and the sincerity in his voice makes the Harry’s pulse quicken all the more.

Instead of sitting down at one of the chairs, though, the prince only takes another step closer to Harry. They’re an arms width apart now, and the baker boy isn’t sure if the flowery scent lingering by his nose is all in his head, or if Louis really smells like a field of roses.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t present all day yesterday, and that I wasn’t able to inform you of my absence for dinner,” Louis says, looking at Harry’s eyes straight on. His blue crystals were clear, free of any bothersome worry, and Harry wonders if this means anything concerning him. “Zayn and I were sent to the seaside to check upon the fishermen having troubles as of the moment,” he continues. “What with the coming of winter, it’s getting a bit harder for the fishermen to do their jobs.”

Harry nods, listening to the prince intently. “So that’s where you went off to?”

“Mother sent me to offer them some help,” Louis confirms, slipping his hand into his tunic pocket. “When I was walking along the shore, though, I saw something that reminded me of you.”

At this, Harry’s sure the world stops. He feels his own eyes widen, breath stuck in his throat. He watches as the shorter monarch in front of him takes his dainty hands from the pocket, and sees that it clutches something within it. Louis’ other hand beckon’s for Harry’s, palm up, and the warmth where their skin touches blazes through even up to Harry’s toes. Louis holds the baker’s hand gently with one of his own, and delicately drops a sparkly, red seashell from the other.

Harry stares at it; it’s simplicities, and hard ridges. The beauty of how normal, and extraordinary it is all at once.

He loves it the moment he feels it on his skin.

“The color of your lips and your cheeks when you blush,” Louis whispers to him, observing his reaction. Their hands are still clutching one another, Louis closed over Harry’s, but he’s lost looking between the ocean in Louis’ eyes and the beautiful shell that once came from them.

“Beautiful,” Harry breathes out, feeling a bit dazed. A part of himself was so steadfast to ignore how attracted he is to the prince, probably because of the way he is treated, mostly because he knows it’s impossible. At this very moment, however, overwhelmed with the thoughtfulness of the sun prince, and the attention he is being bathed in, he feels all of his feelings hit back tenfold.

Louis nods. “Just like you,” he confirms.

They stand like this, both unaware for how long, before Louis blinks, clears his throat, and looks down. Harry realizes then, that the prince is _shy_.

He motions towards the table and Harry notices how his hand shake a bit. “Shall we?”

“Oh! Uhm, I thought the meal was for you and Sir Zayn?” Harry questions.

“Nah, Zayn’s with Liam. _Canoodling_ ,” Louis says with a grimace, and Harry laughs at the look on his face. “This one’s for you and me, Curly,” he continues, draping himself down on one of the lavish end chair.

Harry mulls it over first, whether he should succumb to this routine that Louis has seem to have built with the way he treats Harry. He’s thinking about the retribution of this kindness, how the prince would take it all back the next time they meet.

With the way Louis is smiling at him now though, he knows he couldn’t refuse even if he tried.

With the shell clutched protectively in his hand, he sets towards his designated seat.

~*~

That night, when Niall finds Harry in their room, he isn’t pouting and brooding. Instead, he had a wide grin on him and he was staring off into the distance. 

Niall worries about Harry a lot.

“Hiya, Haz,” Niall says cautiously. “All right?”

“More than all right, Niall. I’m marvelous, astound, splendid!”

“Uh, okay, then. Mind telling me why?”

And Harry tells him why. All the while, Niall smiles, trying his best not to laugh at how dreamy the expression is on Harry’s face whilst telling the story.

“And,” Harry breathes, slumping his shoulders, stroking the shell on his palm. “He asked me to come with him tomorrow! He was tasked to visit the orphanage in town, and he though it would be nice if I was there!”

“That’s great, Harry,” Niall enthuses, amusement evident in his voice. “I’d be coming too, you know?”

“Oh! Really?” Harry questions, only now looking at the stable boy, never once throughout his story.

Niall nods, “Yeah. They want to bring some ponies over for the children to play with and learn to ride. Julian and the boys need all the help they can get. It’s pretty cool.”

“I love kids, I’m good with them,” Harry exclaims. “I could help teach them how to ride!”

“You can’t even walk, Harry,” Niall cackles madly and Harry scoffs, but laughs along with him all the same.

It’s a pretty normal night for them.

~*~

The two boys wake up at the crack of dawn, strapping on the customary riding gear provided by the castle. They set off towards the stables, plain overcoats, khaki breeches, and brown riding boots fastened on their bodies.

Harry has been in the stables a few times, during his breaks, and in between dull kitchen hours, visiting Niall and all the others in charge of taking care of the horses. It was a large space that smelt of wood, hay, and, of course, horse manure.

It was a wonder Niall maintained a not so dingy smell everyday.

“It’s proper hygiene, I tell these people,” the boy exclaims at Harry’s musings. “They smell like shit, cause they never wash.”

“You just have perfume stuck up your arse, Horan!” Johnny, one of the other stable boys, shouts from the other side of the space.

Niall grumbles with this, but joins in when everyone starts laughing.

Johnny, a tall, pale man with his long hair tied up in a bun, pulls Harry in for a pat on the back. “Nice to see ya again, Harry. Haven’t been visiting as often, lad!” 

“He’s been busy with love problems,” Niall sniggers, and Harry glares at him.

“Ohhh, who’s the lucky lady?” Brad, Mary’s little boy, whispers, wiggling his eyebrows up at Harry.

Homosexuality, although not unheard of, was still highly unusual in Solbourne. Only a few were known to identify themselves as anything but straight, and while it wasn’t such that people stoned those who were brave enough to tell like in the stories of other countries Harry has heard, it was unavoidable that some people would still turn their noses towards the idea.

Thinking of this, Harry merely shrugs at the taunts and teases of those working at the stable, and shakes his head. “No one important,” he says cheekily. “Yet." 

Those around laugh at him, and give him manly pats on the back. (It hurts, to be honest, but Harry won’t admit that. Niall, who’s smirking at him from a distance, seem to know, though.)

“Right, lads,” Kit, the stable hand, announces from where he had just finished brushing a sleek, and beautiful white horse. “Time to rile up the ponies, orders say bring about ten. Make sure to check if they’re fit for activities, and that they’re fed and watered. Not too young, alright?”

The stable boys and men nod at the order, setting up to get to work. Harry offers his help, but everyone brushes him away. He isn’t sure whether it’s because they don’t want him to work, or if it’s because they don’t trust him with the ponies.

Oh well.

He ambles over to the white horse he’s seen with Kit, and ogles at it’s beauty. He cautiously moves towards it, afraid that maybe it would go rogue on him.

“Don’t worry, lad,” Kit says, seeing Harry’s fear. “She’s one of the nicest beings that ever graced this planet, I tell ya.”

“She’s beautiful,” Harry croons, hands delicately petting the horse’s mane.

“Aye, she is. Name’s Luna,” says Kit, nodding along to Harry’s caressing. “She’s the prince’s.”

Although he wasn’t aware of this fact, strangely enough, it was like he already knew, even before anyone told him. Just looking at the horse, and Harry could already see how wonderful she and Louis would look together, Louis and Luna, the sun and the moon.

Kit clears his throat suddenly, and tilts his head towards the other horses. “Better choose a horse for yourself, then, lad.”

Harry startles at this, his brows scrunching in confusion. “Why? Uhm, I mean, all of you would walk to the orphanage, right? I don’t mind.”

“Aye, we will,” Kit confirms, petting his long beard like harry did Luna’s. “It’s the prince orders, though. Can’t argue with that,” he says, shrugging his shoulders in a ‘what can you do’ way.

“Sorry?” Harry says incredulously. “The Prince?”

Kit nods solemnly, placing a hand to his chest. “Aye, young master told me yesterday to let you choose a horse for yerself. Great lad, great lad.”

Before Harry could argue, Kit pushes him towards the other horses, making a shooing motion with his hands, and continues to groom Luna, strapping onto her a black saddle. 

Harry feels a bit warm at the thought that Louis made preparations for their trip today, going as far as to warn the stable hand to lend Harry a horse of his own. He’s not going to lie and say that he wasn’t worried about Louis’ apparent mood swings about him. He’s still half sure that one way or another, the prince would find a way to treat him badly in the next few days.

Shaking his head, and putting his thoughts to the side, Harry sets forth and marches up and down the stable, searching for his perfect horse.

In all honesty, he really doesn’t have that much knowledge about horses. In his whole lifetime, he’s only ever ridden one horse, and that was his family’s own family horse. He had no idea what to look for, so he went about walking around first. The stable held about a hundred horses, maybe more, not including the ponies, and the newborn ones. It was hard to choose, between the tall, small, black, brown ones, and everything in between.

Just as he was reaching the end of the long building, he sees a medium sized, horse. He was all black, the complete opposite of Luna, and just by looking at his placid movements, he knew that this horse would be the right one for him.

Looking around, he saw that Niall was back from wherever it was he went, stringing along with him two beautiful ponies.

“Nialler, what’s the name of this one?” Harry asks, already caressing the horse’s mane.

“Hmm? Oh, that’s Navis,” Niall answers distractedly, too busy cooing at the ponies he had with him.

“Huh, Navis? What does that mean?”

“I think it’s another language for ship or some shit,” the blonde man says with his eyes closed, face blissful and pressed in the mane of one pony.

Harry worries about Niall a lot.

~*~

They were all outside the gates waiting for the prince and his entourage, and Harry felt like a right tool. 

He was the only one on top of a horse, Niall, Kit, Johnny, Brad, and Dylan, another stable boy, were all on foot. They each held two reins of a pony in their hands, the said animals calmly shuffling along beside them.

He felt awkward being so high while his peers were not; he kept asking if it was necessary for him to have a horse. Only after the sixth time, when Kit growled at him, did he let it go.

After a few more minutes of Harry’s fidgeting, the stablemen and boys’ chatter, Niall’s loving caressing of the ponies, and Kit’s loud belly laughter, the prince’s personal banners finally immerged from the castle gates.

“About bloody time,” Dylan whispers, but Kit shushes him, “Shut your trap.”

Louis, sitting proudly a top a beautiful Luna, looked, as per usual, marvelous. He had impeccable riding gear, so unlike the simple khakis and breeches that Harry himself had on. He was clad in his signature blue, white, and gold, the colors matching Luna’s splendid shine.

Together with five other knights, Liam one of them, and Zayn, whose horse was galloping on steadily beside Louis’, they rode towards Harry and the others. 

As they reached the group just above a hill, everyone bent down on the knee, showing their respects to the prince, and his entourage. Harry, being incapable of doing so, had no other choice, but to nod his head as low as it could go. 

He still had no idea what Louis’ mood today would be, whether or not Harry was friend, foe, or simply nonexistent to him. He eyed the prince curiously from under his head of hair, and caught his eye. The prince looked at him for a moment. He closes his eyes slowly, as if thinking, and Harry holds his breath. Louis’ eyes blink open, moves towards Kit, and ignores Harry.

Which, okay. Not _again_.

“Your Highness,” Kit says, still on bended knee, his head bowed down, the tips of his black beard grazing the floor.

“Kit!” Louis exclaims, a smile on his face now. “No need for this decorum when no one’s looking!” He jokes, making Kit grin back at him. “We best be off,” the sun prince says towards the rest off the stable hands. “My deepest apologies for our tardiness. Lord Malik here couldn’t find the right outfit for charity work.” 

Everyone laughs as Zayn threatens to push Louis off of his horse, but the merriment goes over Harry’s glazed mind. He can’t believe Louis did it to him again, is _doing_ it to him again. The hot and cold treatment is getting really old, and as they gallop towards the orphanage, he feels even much like a fool, feeling like he’s been played at again.

 ~*~

The journey to the main Solbourne orphanage was a quick 30 minutes if taken on a horse, but since the others were walking on foot, they decided it’d be best to trek together. It took them just an hour and a few short minutes, this time spent on the stable hands and the knights exchanging stories while Louis, and sometimes Zayn, offered their own pieces to the conversation.

It was amazing to watch. How Louis, the crown prince, could bring himself down the size of his subjects when everyone knew how powerful he truly was. He exchanged banter with them, making them laugh so hard that they were red in the cheeks, teased them about their fancies, and just full on became one of them for a few short minutes. 

Harry, although he tried, couldn’t keep his eyes off of the prince. He understands why the service people loved the royals, as it was loyalty, and their own honors holding the affections, but as he watches how Louis acts around them, how Louis genuinely cares for them, he thinks that it’s only justifiable how deep the adoration his people held for the prince. Harry had no doubt about what an amazing king Louis would soon make, only if he wasn’t such a moody ass.

As they reached the orphanage, a committee welcomes them.

“All hail Prince Louis!”

The rest of the stable hands and Louis’ entourage stay back as Louis is surrounded by bowing figures. He looks like a true blue royal amidst it all, how he succinctly accepts, at the same time, dislodges all the praise thrown his way.

“Sir Stanley, a pleasure to see you again,” Louis says politely, once he’s off of his horse. The five knights immediately are by his side, Zayn still casually lounging on his horse.

“Your Highness, it’s an honor to have you here with us,” Sir Stanley says, making a move to bow to his knees when Louis stops him. “I didn’t think you had such high respects towards the crown, Stan,” Louis states with his eyebrows raised, and the two men look at each other’s eyes for a moment before quickly erupting into laughter.

“It’s nice to see you again, really, old friend,” Sir Stanley, _Stan_ , says as Louis pulls him into a fierce hug.

“It is. I’m sorry I haven’t been around much to visit. Royal duties and all,” Louis says arrogantly as they separate, and Stan rolls his eyes, muttering a quick “twat” as he pulls Zayn, who has finally made it off his horse, into a hug next.

The three of them walk towards the door of the huge orphanage, with Harry, the stable hands, and the knights closely following suit.

It was so strange to Harry to see Louis like this: with real friends and with a real life. For so long, to Harry, he was only but a huge painting passed around in town on Louis’ birthdays, only a smidge of color on canvas and nothing else. Lately, he’s been a tyrant; a scary, all-powerful being that could take away Harry’s life in a blink of an eye.

Most recently, though, he finds himself discovering new things, new layers of Louis. Getting to know him better, his moods and how they swing from side to side, his eyes and their calm blues, refreshing greens and turbulent grays. Although it quite pained Harry, the way it was so easy for Louis to treat him kindly and ignore him in an instant, Harry found that it was a blessing; he feels lucky, even with the circumstance, that Louis gives a damn about him at all.

The room with which they find the three highborn men looked, quite frankly, like a rainbow decided to make it it’s own quarters. The small hall was painted in mismatched colors, blues and greens on the floor; red and violet paint splatters coating the walls; bright pink and yellow tainting the tables. Amidst all the colors, sat ten attentive children, looking like they were all about seven to nine years of age. They were the painting of perfect angels, with hair in braids, and overcoats securely and daintily fastened on their shoulders.

They were smiling too, and when Stan gives a quick, “What do you say to His Royal Highness?” They all stand up in unison, which surprises Harry, and his fellowmen, before giving a deep, proper highborn bow to Louis. The children all greet him with a squeaky, “Good day to you, Your Highness.” Which in turn makes Louis let out a peel of delighted laughter. 

“What a marvelous bunch you are,” the prince exclaims, before bowing elegantly himself. He winks at a few little girls, and this makes them beet red, giggling quietly.

“Well, you’ve certainly taught them well, Stan,” Louis says, turning towards his friend, and clapping him on the shoulders.

“I try,” Stan shrugs nonchalantly, although his face is smug.

“Now, we shouldn’t waste time, should we start with the lessons, then, my lords, and ladies?” Louis asks the children, and they all nod eagerly with their eyes bright.

“Follow me! I have a special surprise for all of you waiting outside,” the sun prince grins mischievously before dashing out of the room, a flock of blonde, brown, and black hair on small people following him through.

 ~*~

The day was probably the most fun Harry’s had in years. It was refreshing to see so many children once more, having been surrounded by them when he worked in the bakery. It made the kids laugh to watch Niall, and the other stable hands running around after the ponies, although they did it mostly for show. It was also such a sight to see Zayn and the knights, who took off their helmets, playing with small children, their laughter unabashed — pure. Zayn even snorted once or twice, yet he still looked extremely good while doing it. Damn Zayn.

Harry, on the other hand, taught a little girl named Georgia how to ride a horse properly, during her talking about her favorite flowers, insisting that she should rename the pony assigned to her, and asking about how people knew the color of the sun, if no one could ever look directly into it.

They bonded, and her quirky questions made him like her all the more. During lunch, they ate together with the other kids who weren’t old enough to learn horseback riding. They devoured the food from the palace, and Harry was surprised to see Louis feeding not one, but three toddlers at once, neglecting the sandwich set for himself. Even when the prince still hasn’t acknowledged him, except for a few sneers here and there, it made Harry’s heart warm.

It was all throughout a raucous yet fun experience: kids falling off of horses, food being thrown around by the little children, paint finding it’s way on some of the horses’ manes (“I made Matilda pink, Harry.” “That is actually not a good thing, Georgia.”) 

As it was, all things must come to an end, so just a few minutes after lunch, they were set to pack, and ready to leave. Louis, unsurprisingly, looked as much as reluctant to leave, as the kids were to see him go.

“Come back soon, Prince Louis?” Jason, a small, blonde haired seven year old asks, tugging on the hem of Louis’ tunic. The prince scoops him up his arms, then and there, and kisses his forehead. It just about melts Harry.

“I’ll come back as soon as I can, Jason. I promise,” He says, hugging the boy to his chest.

Now, on their trek back to the palace, Harry starts to wonder what the whole point of this whole charade was. He doesn’t understand why Louis asked him to come with when all the prince did was scoff whenever Harry fell off his horse, and roll his eyes when he choked on a big bite of food.

 _He could’ve done just fine ignoring me inside the palace, and what not,_ Harry thinks bitterly.

Moments later, they reach the Claror Palace gates, and hope of some kind of formal acknowledgment from the prince vanishes as he watches him and his entourage part from them.

 ~*~

This whole cycle goes on for a whole two weeks.

It’s mid-December already, and the palace is in an uproar with the coming of not only the New Year, but most importantly, Louis’ birthday.

Preparations for the annual massive banquet in honor of Louis made the staff rampant, distressed, and panic; the added pressure of more incoming royalty and highborn sending the entirety of the service people frantic. 

Harry, on his whole lonely island, is not so much as unconcerned about the ball, but merely _distracted_ from it.

How can he solely focus his attention on preparing and sampling meal after meal, setting up holly, and other décor, when Louis provides him with enough distress as it is?

In the span of a short two weeks, the prince has both brought endless joy _and_ pain into Harry’s life. They’ve gone from Louis showing Harry his favorite books in the humongous bookshelf in his room to shoving the baker boy aside the next day. From an impromptu snowball fight that ended up in them shivering and blue to Louis actually tripping Harry whilst he was holding a tray of food.

All this and more happened, yet every single time, Harry couldn’t find it in himself to confront the prince about it. He wasn’t sure anymore, whether it was because he was afraid of a beheading (although, he’s come to realize that that was as possible as him shitting gold) or because he was scared that if he faced the royal, Louis would withdraw from all sorts of communication possible. To Harry, antagonizing hot and cold treatment was better than none at all.

Currently, he was set up high on a ladder in the great hall, stringing up gold encrusted laurels (he still isn’t sure if it’s real gold or just paint), thinking about the hurricane that is Prince Louis when the devil himself comes. 

His ladder shakes once, twice, and considering how high up he was, Harry deemed it a perfect reason to start screeching his bloody head off.

“What the fuck!” He shouts, the sound bouncing off the ceiling of the hall, his arms wobbling, and he grips onto the edge design of the ceiling tightly. A few feet below him comes an all-together familiar bout of mischievous laughter. It’s very faint, given the distance from floor to ceiling, but Harry would know that sound anywhere.

He glares down at the small figure situated at the foot of the ladder, the smirking, spitting image of Louis himself.

“Louis, you fucker!” He screams, still a bit agitated from nearly dying. He only realizes the words that came out of his mouth, and how loud he had shouted it out, when a deafening silence greets him in return.

The once loud hustle and bustle of the service people milling about taking care of the décor slows to a halt, and fizzles out, leaving an eerie sort stillness.

Strangely enough, it was Louis himself who breaks the monotony. 

He _cackles_ and _guffaws_ , loud, wide, and brazen. After a beat of more silence except the ringing of the prince’s laughter, the bustle continues again, and all is normal. 

Harry sighs, and curses all the gods and fate itself that led him to this very moment of his life, before wiping his hands on his ragged tunic, and climbing down the ladder.

Once he reaches the ground, he sees the prince dressed in his customary garb, that is, clothes looking flawless and expensive enough to buy a cottage in town. He’s beaming innocently up at Harry, smile angelic, hands holding one of the small golden laurels.

He reaches up, and pushes Harry’s curls back behind his ears, tucking them in. He gently places the golden laurels on his head, and smiles. “Perfect,” the prince says. 

Harry clears his throat and he knows just how much he’s blushing even amidst the cold. “Did you need anything, sire?” He asks, and Louis rolls his eyes, mockingly muttering, “sire." 

“Yes, I actually did need something, Harold,” he states, ignoring Harry’s, “Not my name,” interval. They’ve done it probably hundreds of times now, yet Louis still insists on calling Harry Harold. (“It sounds proper posh, Harold.” “Who said I wanted to be posh, Lewis?”)

“I need you,” Louis continues, taking Harry’s hand in his own. “To spend some quality time with your soon to be king,” he declares, finishing smugly.

Harry rolls his eyes, blushes a bit with the way his fellow service people are trying to subtly watch the exchange, and responds. “And why is that, oh soon to be king?”

Louis grins, and gives a nonchalant shrug. “You’re visiting home tomorrow, yes?” He asks, shyly, as far as shy in Louis’ vocabulary could go.

Harry’s eyebrows scrunch, and his head tilts. He looks at Louis curiously before nodding his assent. “That is correct,” he answers slowly in his usual drawl.

“Well then,” Louis exclaims, letting Harry’s hands go and clapping his own. The baker boy gets tiny whiplashes every time he’s with Louis, he swears. His attitude changes so _fast_. “Time to have fun!” 

~*~

Fun, in this case, is fish. 

Tons, and tons of fish, with different colors, sizes, types, kinds. Just – _fish_. Louis excitedly drags Harry around the palace, running, and avoiding the people that are rushing about. They sneak, and dodge, grins on their faces. He’s sure they look like children to the people, but he doesn’t mind, not at all. They laugh as they narrowly avoid crashing into James, who had a Princess Daisy and Phoebe nattering on to him about the consequences of having only one giant cake instead of ten.

Louis kisses his little sisters on head, though, tells James to give the little ladies their cakes with a strong, yet empty glare, before taking off again, Harry right behind him. 

They reach a set of stairs that leads down, _down_ to the depths of the palace: an underground pond. Amazing.

 Louis brought him to a magical place, with crystal lights that glow green, and a chill that doesn’t seem to bother the skin.

The fish that swim around in the pound are magnificent; illuminated with the soft light from the crystals, along with their own colorful brilliance, they look like little stars, swimming around the vast pond.

“Louis,” Harry breathes, literally breathes out, for he feels faint with what’s in front of him.

“I knew you’d like it,” Louis responds, smiling as he pulls Harry down next to where he’s settled himself, legs crossed comfortably.

“Like it? I _love_ it! This is wonderful! The best place I’ve ever been to,” Harry exclaims, eyes still on the fish that flitter about the dark water.

Louis nods, fingers trailing the pond water. “I found out about it when I was little, and I wanted to get away from lessons,” he says, smiling nostalgically.

Harry laughs at this, imagining a small prince Louis running around the castle, much like what they did just moments ago.

“I was hiding behind a closet door,” he continues. “Then when I saw Paul, my tutor, open another door I’ve never been into before, I knew I had to go in there. So when he passed by where I was, I pulled the heavy door open, went down the stairs, and found this place.”

“Who knew something good could come from your stubbornness?” Harry teases, and Louis pinches his sides, “Getting cheeky, aren’t you?”

They laugh together, and they don’t feel the need to talk after their giggles die down. Harry continues to watch the fish, lost in the serenity of the moment.

He then jerks when Louis places his hand on his cheek, turning Harry’s face towards him.

“How long will you be gone?” Louis asks quietly, the green luminosity of the light turning his eyes green.

“Just a day, I’d be back before you know it,” Harry whispers back, watching as Louis’ gaze shift from his eyes to his lips. His breath catches, and the space between them slowly close until he could feel the long lashes of Louis’ eyes brush against his cheeks.

“I’d miss you in that day,” the prince says, so quietly that Harry wouldn’t have heard it wasn’t for the fact that his whole being was attuned to whatever it was Louis’ was doing.

He was just about to lean a bit close, just had to do the final act of cutting the distance between them when suddenly—

Louis was standing up. _Why_ was Louis standing up?

He’s brushing his hands on his trousers, and Harry looks up at him, dazed and confused at what had just happened.

_What?_

“Come on then,” Louis says, offering his hand to a still stupefied Harry. He notices how rough Louis’ voice sounds, and the prince must too, since he clears his throat before continuing. “We both have work that we have to do before my mum kills the both of us,” he says, laughing awkwardly.

Harry was about to speak up, was about to protest, cause _no,_ Louis could ignore most things, but _that_ was different. _No_ , he couldn’t brush off Harry like that again, not after so many highs and lows that he’s dragged Harry through. Hwe as just about to throw all the confusion and misperception that has been boggling Harry for the past few weeks when he sees it.

It, being the silent begging present in Louis’ eyes. He could see the way the prince was pleading for Harry to not bring anything up, and Harry, being the whipped fool that he is, feels all the fight leave his body. His shoulders slump, and he looks at the hand that Louis has outstretched towards him. He clears his throat too, feels the weight of despair lodging itself in the crevices of his chest, and takes the prince’s offered palm.

He stands up, and he pretends he doesn’t see the way Louis’ face fall when he untangles his hand from the prince’s instead of holding on.

~*~

The sound of Navis’ gentle amble soothes Harry as he makes his way back home. His pocket is a lot heavier now compared to when he first made the opposite trek towards the castle, the crown’s promise of 15 gold pieces sitting comfortably inside it.

When Kit had told him that Louis wanted Harry to choose a horse for himself, he thought it was more a rent rather than a real gift. As it was, he was wrong, and Navis was now his. He mindlessly caresses his horse’s jet-black mane, affection seeping through his fingertips.

He hadn’t seen the said prince when he left after receiving his payment. The last he’d seen the royal was after they’d left the underground pond, when his face was gloomy, and his eyes were unable to meet Harry’s.

To say that Harry was a bit frustrated would be the understatement of the century. He didn’t understand how the prince’s mind works. He _knew_ that Louis was attracted to him, could see it in the way the other boy acted, the way he moved and treated Harry. But whenever he was just about to let go, when he was about to fall, and let himself do what he really wanted to do, he abruptly held back, pushing Harry farther away. It was infuriating. 

He grumbles, and mumbles, the sound of Navis’ hooves hitting the dirt becoming a soundtrack to Harry’s misery.

At last, after a few more minutes of the _grumumbling_ , he starts to sees the familiar outlines of his village, and is suddenly hit with the feeling of _home_. It dawns on to him just how much he’d missed his family in the month and a half he’s been gone, and this thought pushes him to urge Navis into a full on gallop.

Harry arrives at the door of his home in no time at all. As jumps down from Navis’ saddle, and ties the reigns of the horse beside, Gally, their old family horse, he hears a peal of familiar merriment coming from inside the house.

He knocks on the door, once, twice, before it’s opened, and the shocked, yet elated face of a happy, healthy Gemma greets him.

“Harry!” She says, before throwing herself onto him for the tightes hug Harry has ever known.

“Gemm—! Ow, okay, I missed you, too, but this is hurting me!” He exclaims, laughing at how Gemma peppers kisses all over his face, before pulling him down, and ruffling his hair. “I’ve missed you, baby brother!” She exclaims, and before Harry knows it, Gemma is being thrown, quite literally, off of him, and his arms are full of an ecstatic, beautiful Anne. 

“Harry, darling,” she coos, kissing his face not unlike her daughter did. “I’m so glad you’re home! Gemma has been terrible to deal with alone,” she mocks whispers, and the indignant, “Hey!” that follows the statement makes both of them laugh.

He’s home.

~*~

They spend the rest of the day catching up, Harry talking about the palace life (conveniently leaving out details of Louis), and Gemma and Anne sharing the details of everything that has happened in his absence. They tell him how greatly the doctor as helped in Gemma’s recovery, and that they were quite lucky to have found him otherwise the consequences could have been irrevocable (they all knew what this meant, and they were all thankful that it is the thing of the past.)

After that, they chat about lighter happenings, about the round gossip that filtered through town, Anne telling Harry that Simon threw quite the fit when he found out that his most diligent worker had quit.

In the afternoon, Ed stops by to visit the family, and Harry tackles him to the ground as soon as the other man steps through their front door.

“Harry!” Ed says, screeching, pinching Harry’s cheeks, and laughing manically. “You’re home!”

“Nice to see you too, Ed,” Harry tries to say as his cheeks continue to be taut. “How are you, man?” He asks, after giving Ed a final pat on the back.

Ed grins sheepishly, before lifting his left hand, showing of a simple, silver band wrapped around his ring finger. Harry gasps, looking from the finger to Ed, before slapping his hand away. “No!” He exclaims.

“Yes!” Ed laughs, Gemma and Anne joining in the background. “But, to whom? When? Why? Without me?” He says incredulously, trying to feign hurt, but it proves difficult when he’s nothing but happy for his best friend.

“A week after you left, actually,” the other man mutters, and Harry cackles madly. “Ed, you sly dog!”

“Taylor said yes, so,” He finishes, and Harry could see how happy the other man was. He nods, and places his hands on Ed’s shoulders. “Happy for you,” Harry says sincerely, “You finally got the girl?”

“Finally got the girl,” Ed confirms, grinning.

Ed stays to chat after this, the four of them cuddled in front of the fireplace as the winter chill seeps through the house. They talk about nothing, and everything all at once, and just when the last embers of the flames where dying out, Harry decides to tell them all about Louis. He figures, what has he got to lose?

At first, Gemma thought he was bluffing. He said that it was impossible, the prince was, well, _the prince_ , and Harry was just Harry. (“What is that supposed to mean?” “Shut up, you know what I mean.”)

Ed laughs, and shrugs, saying that crazier things have happened. When Gemma asks what’s crazier than a prince liking a servant, Ed simply lifts his left hand again, and pointedly looks at his ring finger. “I asked Taylor to marry me, without us even being together, and she said yes.”

Gemma shuts up after this.

Anne, on the other hand, doesn’t take it as lightly. “Are you sure you should still be associating with this Louis boy, love?” She asks worriedly, stroking Harry’s hair where his head laid on his lap.

“ _Mum_ ,” Harry groans exasperatedly. “He’s no ‘Louis boy’, he’s the prince!”

“Well, prince or not, he has no right to treat you like that, baby,” Anne reasons.

Harry heaves a sigh at this, because he knows that Louis has no right, _whomever_ he is, but he just couldn’t stop himself from letting Louis do whatever it was he wanted. The prince presence and attention was addicting to Harry, a day, hour, even just a minute of it could make him feel elated.

The conversation carries on till the wee hours of the morning, the four of them trying their best to keep their eyes open, but eventually, exhaustion wins out, and sleep soon comes.

~*~

In the early morning, as Harry prepares Navis to leave towards the palace, he finds his mother watching him by their front door. Harry smiles at her, before noticing the grim expression on her face.

“What’s wrong, mum?” He asks, taking her hands in his.

“You don’t have to go back, Harry,” she says cautiously, petting his curls.

Harry sighs, knowing deep down that this was coming. He knows that he doesn’t have to come back now, that with the debt to Gemma’s doctor now gone, Harry could leave his service at the Claror palace, take up a much less emotionally grueling, much closer to home job somewhere in town. But—

But the thing is, whenever as he so much as considers this thought, Louis voice interrupts everything.

_“I’d miss you in that day.”_

He could still hear Louis’ voice delivering those words, and he feels the shiver run up his spine.

_“I’d miss you in that day.”_

He considers staying, but the thought of never seeing Louis again, with his antics, even his moodiness, makes a gut wrenching sadness settle in Harry’s stomach.

He looks at his mother, squeezes her hand tight, tighter, and pulls her into a hug.

“I know, mum. But—“ He sighs again, feeling guilty that it seems like he was choosing the palace over his family. “But—“

“It’s the prince isn’t it?” She asks knowingly, and Harry could do nothing but nod.

“Well, can’t do anything about that,” she whispers glumly. “I made you something, though.” She says, going back inside the house and immerging with a soft looking quilt in her hands. She drapes it over his shoulder before pecking his cheek. “Gemma and I made it, a few weeks back. We know how easy you get cold. I know it’s not much but—“

“I love it,” Harry immediately interrupts before his mother could finish. “It’s wonderful. Thank you.”

Anne nods, as she tries to stop the tears from flowing from her eyes. Sending off her youngest child the first time was hard, she didn’t know doing it again would be a lot more difficult. Before she starts to properly cry, though, she gives Harry one last hug, and pecks his cheeks once more. “Go on then, we’ll see you next month.”

Harry looks at her, smiles, and turns to leave. “Tell Gemma I said goodbye,” he says. Gemma wasn’t able to send him off, having left the house much earlier in the morning with Ed, both off to work.

He pets Gally, takes one last look at their quaint house, and hitches himself up on Navis, making his way back to the Claror Palace, back to Louis.

_“I’d miss you in that day,” he hears Louis say. “I’d miss you in every moment,” is all he wants to say back._

~*~

To his surprise, he finds Louis waiting for him inside the palace, just by the gates. He still had the quilt that his mother and Gemma made for him wrapped around his shoulder since he didn’t want to take it off. It feels like the both of them are still with him, and it smells so much of home that it quells Harry’s homesickness just a bit more.

He hops down from Navis, before Dylan comes and fist bumps him, taking the horse’s reigns. “Fun trip?” The blonde boy asks.

Harry nods, “Yeah, thanks.”

Dylan turns to look at him confusedly before laughing. “Oh! I was actually asking Navis, but sure, you too, Harry. How was your trip?” He laughs again, and Harry shoves him away, laughing as well.

 _Stable hands are really into horses_ , he muses.

He watches as Dylan pulls Navis away towards the stables, before turning his head to see Louis, tapping his foot on the ground, hands on hips, a stormy expression on his face.

 _This won’t be good_ , Harry thinks.

As he approaches, he starts to cower. _Ahh, one of those, I’m-going-to-kill-you-for-no-reason moods. Ace._

“Louis,” he says as evenly as he can, watching as Liam tries to hide a snicker from where he was behind the sun prince, helmet held in his hand. Harry glares at him, which only makes him snicker more.

“You’re late,” Louis hisses. Which. Okay. _Hisses_.

“Uhm, yeah. I was sort of held up by my mum, actually,” he says sheepishly, and he wonders why he feels like a husband caught cheating by his wife when all he did was go home to his _mother_ , gods.

 “Your mum,” Louis repeats, sounding like he doesn’t believe it at all. “Only your mum?” 

“And my sister, yeah. A friend too,” Harry confirms. At this, Louis eyes start to squint smaller, glare intensifying.

“A _friend_ ,” he hisses again, and, wait. Is that jealousy Harry hears laced in Louis’ voice?

Well, _the nerve_.

“A friend,” he confirms again, and he starts to think that jealousy looks cute on Louis, really. He decides to provoke it further, feeling a bit high with the apparent power he had over the already powerful man standing before him.

The prince’s eyes then dart to the quilt draped on his shoulders, and he sees Louis clenching his jaw. It’s cute. Harry is laughing on the inside. Harry is also going to die soon, but so be it. Louis is _cute_ like this.

“I guess your _friend_ ,” Louis says, uttering the word like it tastes of poison. “Gave that to you?” He finishes, eyes on the patched up quilt.

Harry thinks for a moment, blinks, and concludes: _why the hell not?_

“Yeah, _she_ did.”

A moment later, he feels the wind breeze against his face as the quilt is, quite literally, torn from his back. He blinks as he sees Louis holding the quilt, nose upturned like it was a vile thing unworthy of his mere touch. He hands it over to one of his knights.

“Rip it.”

Harry’s eyes widen, looking at the quilt to the knight now holding it, but hesitating in following the order, to Louis who still looked like he was ready to pounce.

Before Harry could protest and come clean, before he could say that he was joking, and try to calm Louis down, the said prince shouts another, “Rip it!” And he could do nothing, but watch as the last piece of home he had left was torn to shreds.

After the whole ordeal was done, Liam wasn’t sniggering anymore. Instead, he had a look of pity on his face. Louis, on the other hand, was smug.

Harry was, well. He was furious.

“What the hell was that for?” He shouts, and Louis looks taken aback, like he actually believed Harry would not fight back. Like he thought he could push Harry around all he wanted.

“You were late,” he answers simply, and Harry growls, making the monarch, and even Liam, jump.

“My mother and sister gave me that,” Harry says, fuming.

“Oh,” the prince breathes, “then why did you—“

“I was _joking_ ,” Harry says, feeling horrible. “And even if I wasn’t, you had no right.”

Louis huffs at this, still refusing to back down, but the guilt that is starting to make its way into his eyes shows Harry that he knows he did wrong. “I’m your _prince_.”

Harry exhales harshly, gnawing on his lip. After a few beats, he gives a low, highborn bow, the ones he’s seen Zayn and Louis do, countless of times, before huffing, and standing back up. “Well, then, _Your Highness_ ,” he says, so unlike himself that even it surprises him. By the look on Louis’ face, the tone is unfamiliar to him as well. “I must be going. I have work to do.”

With that, he leaves Louis. He feels hurt, and so, so mad. How dare Louis think that he could just push Harry around like that? He knows that the prince was a monarch, but time and time again, Louis has proven him wrong, showing to him that he was unlike those rich, snobby brats that acted out because they had the power to, that he was kind, caring, and gentle.  

All the maltreatment that Louis has done to him, all of which Harry has let slip pass, come rushing back to him. After each one, he’s accepted Louis’ friendship back with no sweat, letting the harsh comments and rude noting slip pass him.

 _Not this time, though_. Harry thinks, as he sees the smug look on Louis’ face, the quilt being ripped to pieces replay on his mind. _Not this time._

 

~*~

He avoids Louis.

It’s easier said than done, the fact that he was also Louis’ private cook was not loss on him, but he tries his best. Also, what with the prince being the second most powerful person in the whole castle, he had the power to just call for Harry whenever he wanted.

And he did do it. He tried to find the baker himself first, staying in the kitchens, trying to catch his attention, bothering him while he was helping for the banquet preparations, and all that. 

Yet Harry always finds a way to either ignore him, or pass him off to an unsuspecting Niall or Mary. Unsurprisingly, Niall and Louis become good friends.

_Blonde headed traitor._

This is when he tries summoning Harry. He asks for the cook’s special attendance in his private quarters, sending scribes and maids, even Liam, alike to call for Harry, day, night, dusk, and dawn.

It was annoying. 

Yet, he did not yield. He gave off excuses about being busy, cooking, cleaning, preparing for the ball, and whatever it was he could think off. He succeeded in evading the prince, only, not for long.

He was taking his nightly walk around the garden before going to bed, moving past the silent crunch of the leaves below his feet, thick fleece covering his whole body from the cold. The moon provided him with light, the once lit candles being blown off by the winter wind.

He has the garden now memorized, the route he was taking one of his favorites, and he was calm. That day has been a Louis free pestering day, which was unusual. It had only been three days of the whole affair, but could it be that Louis had simply given up?

The thought didn’t sit well with Harry, so he swept it away, a thought for another time.

As he was reaching a part of the gardens that loved, though, he squints, pulls to a stop. He sees, a few meters away on the bench he favors, a small figure, sitting hunched up. 

He smiles, trying to stamp down the relief that ebbs in his gut at the sight of a Louis waiting for him. Before he approaches, he schools his face into a cold, expressionless mask, then paves his way towards the royal.

“Your Highness?” He asks, voice devoid of emotion. 

Louis huff and lifts his head, glaring right at Harry. He sighs, after a while, and hangs his head again. “Cut the crap, Harry.”

Harry raises his eyebrows, surprised. Louis’ voice sounded so, well, unlike Louis. It was passionless, and if Louis was anything, it was impassioned. Whether it be about his anger, or his mischief, he was brimming with energy, and life. To hear him like this, so, empty, it makes Harry feel an undeserved remorse.

He sighs, moves a bit farther from where the prince sat, and meekly stands, waiting for what the prince has to say. 

After a while, the prince too sighs and looks up. “I’m sorry, okay?” He utters, saying it like it actually _hurt_ to apologize.

Harry, knowing that he deserved the apology, raises a brow. “For what?”

Louis groans, and Harry tries his best to hide the amusement threatening to erupt from his face. He’s not mad at the prince, not really, couldn’t really stay angry even if he tried.

“You _know_ for what,” Louis pouts.

Harry purses his lips to hold back the fond smile finding it’s way to his mouth. Louis pouting, _wow_.

 “Would I ask, if I knew?” He taunts.

 “I’m sorry for being unreasonable, okay? I’m sorry for being unfair to you. I know it’s wrong but—“

Harry breaks. He sees how hard the prince is trying, and he could never put the other man on the spot for his own amusement. “But?” He asks, voice starting to mellow down. He approaches the boy, and sits beside him. 

There’s silence at first, before Louis sharply ends it. 

“It felt good to be mean to you,” he says bluntly and Harry scoffs, surprised, as he hears this, raising one eyebrow. He feels that anger stir up inside him again, but he pushes it down, as best as he could.

“Then I’m so glad to be of service, sire,” He sardonically says, his hips cocked out 

Louis glances at him, then, the glint of amusement forming in his eyes and a grimace set on his lips. “You don’t get it,” he rasps, voice so gentle that it make Harry want to press his ear to Louis’ lips, to bring himself closer to the golden boy. Which, no. No.

Instead of doing this, he stands and, with a rush of adrenaline and the old bravery that has hid itself inside Harry coming back out, he holds his hand, palm up, and extends it towards Louis.

“Then explain it to me,” he whispers, looking at the sun boy as he looks at Harry’s hand. A moment passes before anything happens, and Harry is just only second guessing his actions, just about to give a strangled apology and take back his hand, when Louis places his atop Harry’s. He smiles at him, the smile where the little canines are poking themselves out of Louis’ mouth, and Harry doesn’t know which is warmer: the sun, Louis’ hand holding his, or his blinding, syrupy smile.

“If you’ve got the time, Curly head, why not?” The prince says, making Harry laugh. He pulls the younger boy into a walk, Harry, a bit startled, stumbles. He hears Louis’ snigger, and, if it was a few weeks prior, he would have been thoroughly offended at the unspoken jab about his incoordination, but now, he’s happy to be the reason that the wonderful tinkle of Louis’ merriment is echoing around the maze.

“Careful,” he whispers, still holding Harry’s hand. He blinks up at the prince, a blush set in his cheeks, which he would blame on the heat, if anyone asks, (“It’s winter, Harry” “Shut up, Niall.”) and smiles, “So? It feels good to be mean to me?”

“How do I explain? It’s very hard to elucidate,” the prince hums, smiling serenely, his head tilted towards the stars as they move languidly around the gardens.

“That’s because it doesn’t make sense!” Harry says incredulously, and Louis laughs, his shoulders shaking.

“Hush, Curly! I’m trying to think of a perfect way to say it.”

“You don’t, uhm, have to, you know?” Harry says suddenly, halting to turn to look at Louis. The other boy stops with him, a question set on his face. “You don’t have to think about a way. Just— you just say it. It is what it is,” Harry explains further, a bit shy with how he’s telling the _crown prince,_ heir to the throne, to the _kingdom_ , what to do. As he says this, though, he sees Louis eyes, how they turn wide and shocked, how his lips part, stunned.

“It is what it is?” Louis questions back at him, and Harry smiles, nods. The prince assesses him for a moment, observing his face before he nods back. He spreads his arms wide to his sides and shrugs. “This is the reason,” the monarch calmly states, making Harry look around the part of the garden where they have come to a halt. This _is_ a good part of it, in Harry’s opinion, the bench that’s present is one of Harry’s favorite spot to sit and rest, the shrubbery cut to the insignia of Solbourne amidst it all, standing tall.

“So, uh, you’re cruel towards me because of a, uh, a bush?” He asks slowly, and Louis breaks into laughter, dropping his hands from how they were outstretched.

“No, you idiot. Honestly, Harold,” Louis sighs exasperatedly. (“It’s _Harry_ , not Harold.”) “ _Anyway_ , Harold,” He continues. “It’s because of what you just said,” Louis calmly states, walking towards the aforementioned bench and settling down upon it. He beckons Harry over to his side, and the boy goes willingly. “It is what it is. No one says that anymore,” the monarch quietly informs.

"I’m sorry, but I really don’t understand, still,” Harry says to the prince, whose eyes are staring back at Harry with a warm gaze.

“Do you know what it is like to be a prince, Harry?” He says, voice filled with a melancholic haze that Harry has the strangest, yet strongest urge to wipe out. At the baker’s shake of a head, though, Louis sighs. “Of course not. Well, let me tell you then,” the prince says, breaking his gaze and closing his eyes. “It is _never_ what it is. It is always what it _has_ to be. There are expectations, rules, laws, duties, assignments, lessons, orders, and – and all of that. Which, it never ends, Harry,” he declares, the once humdrum and calm way he speaks replaced with an agonizing tone of pain. It hurts Harry, as well.

“I soon will be the ruler of this land, and that, in itself, is the heaviest thought to carry. I’ve got the weight of the whole kingdom on my back, besides the expectations of my mother, her council, and everyone else!” Louis rants, but then slowly fizzles out, he slumps down and heaves a heavy sigh. “But you, Harry, it’s — you’re something else.”

At this, Harry feels his heart pulse; his mind reasons that it doesn’t mean anything, yet the rest of his body seems to not adhere to reason. “I guess it felt good to not be kind to you all the time since it is what everyone expects of me: the perfect prince, he who treats everyone with kindness, even when they don’t deserve it; he who upholds his manners at every tick of the clock, even when he feels caged because of it; he who doesn’t seem to know the difference between his real self and the person who everyone wants, no, _needs_ him to be anymore,” Louis says this all so quietly, but Harry hears every single thing. He hears the drawn out vowels and the short consonants of what it is Louis is trying to say, but most of all, he hears Louis, the real one who he, himself, is speaking of.

“But, you are good, Louis,” Harry says, taking the prince’s hand who jerks, but doesn’t retract from the touch. “You don’t, I don’t know, have to be the opposite of your real self to prove that the person besides the perfect prince is still _there_. I know this Louis is just as bright and good as Prince Louis,” he says strongly, he doesn’t feel courageous about what he’s doing at all, but he needs for Louis to hear this. He needs for him to understand. 

“How do you know that, though? How do you know if I’m really kind, and good?” The prince whispers frailly, so unlike what Harry sees of him, what the nation deems him as.

“The first time we ate together, was that you or who you needed to be?” Harry asks, and Louis squints his eyes for a second, but shakes his head.

“It was me,” the prince confirms.

“That day where you spent your time with the orphans, when you fed and loved them, when you played with them and taught them how to ride horses, was that real or fake?”

“It was real,” Louis whispers, understanding dawning in his eyes and Harry nods.

“All those times you helped Mary, and made her laugh. Those times you suggested plans that would benefit not only the rich, _but_ specially the poor in this kingdom too. The days where you spent your free time visiting the different farms to know how they were coping with the weather, real?” It was all rumors around the palace that Harry’s heard over time, but with the way Louis eyes are starting to glisten as he looks astonished, he knows they’re nothing but the truth.

“This, right now, this _you_ with _me_ , is it prince Louis or just _you_ , Louis?” Harry asks solemnly, a strange buzz in his skin and butterflies in his stomach as he watches how Louis shakes his head, a chuckle erupting from his mouth.

“You really are something else, curly,” he states, the tears that housed themselves in Louis’ eyes breaking free.

“I am, aren’t I?” Harry says, making Louis laugh again. “But so are you, Lou,” he assures, wiping the tears streaming from Louis’ eyes, the pad of his thumbs caressing the royal’s cheeks. “You don’t have to create a different version of yourself just to prove to Prince Louis that real Louis is still around.” Louis hiccups and it melts Harry’s heart. The prince holds the baker’s hands tighter and moves, smiles up at him. A few seconds pass, Louis face close to Harry’s, their mouths a breath apart. 

Louis blinks, though, and his smile turns mischievous. “You only said all of that so I would stop making you clean toilets, didn’t you?” He says and it’s so Louis, so his usual, normal self, that it makes Harry guffaw, the two of them laughing hard, the moon casting its radiant glow on their skins.

After they calm down, they both breathe heavily, the smiles on their lips not yet completely wiped. Louis takes Harry’s hand again, and the sparkle in his eyes is enough to warm Harry up for decades on end. “Thank you, Harold. I needed that,” Louis sighs, his thumb caressing the back of Harry’s hand. “It was my pleasure, Louis. And my name’s not Harold.”

Their chimes of laughter, along with the illumination provided by the moon, and the haze the nighttime brings, keeps their hearts company.

~*~

_I make my rules and my own plans, I got no room for no one that's my way_

_then I saw you in a dream and I want to call you a kind of feeling I can't name_


	5. v.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> they love, learn, and lead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my. I know this is like several months late, but I've been on a severe writer's block so I'm really sorry. I pulled through, though! Another long (and quite eventful) chapter, which, yey. 
> 
> Anyway, here are some points again in terms of the universe that I've created:  
> 1\. The fireflies that make a brief cameo here appear even in the winter. It's weird but fireflies are ace babies with lit butts so they deserve to be alive year round!!  
> 2\. The thing that Harry gives Louis is, again, fictional meaning I created a world where starfish glow.  
> 3\. Lastly, It doesn’t snow in Solbourne since it’s a sunny country. Think California. 
> 
> So, that's it. Hope you have fun reading it! Oh, and btw, this is yet to be edited as I still don't have a beta. Woe is my life. Tell me in the comments if I have any typos and I'll correct them!
> 
> Kudos and comments are all very much appreciated. x

_How many days and nights will come and go, while the only light you'll see is from my glow._  
_There will never be a dawn that breaks the spell surrounding us till the earth dies with the sun._

 _*Wolf & I - _Oh Land _*_

~*~

  
To say that Harry was enjoying his existence at the moment would be a horrid understatement — he was absolutely _high_ on life. The past few days have been nothing short of wonderful for him and it was all because of one person.

He’s spent almost every waking moment away from work with Louis, basking in his laughter and warmth, earning his smiles and affection.

Currently, they were sitting on the floor of the kitchen, partially hidden behind one of the working tables; Louis was dressed in peasant’s garb, trying to blend in with the rest of the service people milling about. Harry had let the prince borrow some of his clothes solely for the reason that he wanted to know what the royal would look like without all the flair that surrounds him.

Looking at him now, torso draped in the simple tunic and woolen hat on his head, he just looks like a normal person, the only evident signs of his regality presenting themselves in the way the prince moves, gentle and sweet. To say the least, Harry thinks he’s still the most beautiful person in the land.

Still, even without the fancy clothes and expensive crown on Louis’ head, Harry thinks that the disguise proves to be useless as everyone within the palace knows what Louis’ face looks like. Seeing as Liam is sitting on a chair a few feet away, armor clad, sword by his side, and eyes on Louis while munching at what looks like banana bread, he thought right.

“You know you’re not fooling anyone, right?” He says to Louis sitting beside him, a bowl of cake batter held tight in his arm, resting on his lap. “Everyone knows you’re here.”

“It’s been hours and no one has called me out on sitting on a dirty floor, stuffing my face with sweets when on normal days, I can’t so much as lift a finger wrong without some repercussion. I think I’m at least fooling the right people, Harry,” Louis huffs before scooping another spoonful and putting it in his mouth, sticking his tongue out, cake batter and all.

Harry can’t help but guffaw at this, his _prince_ , looking nothing like what he’s supposed to be, all messy and free of constraints.

He takes one of Louis hand, ignoring the way Louis grumbles at having to let go of the bowl, and points it at Liam. The knight only raises an eyebrow at this, and continues to chew on his bread serenely.

“Liam has literally been here for hours, maybe even as long as us,” Harry points out, letting go of Louis hand and giving him an incredulous look.

“Well, that’s because he’s Liam and he’s strangely attuned to everything I’m doing,” Louis explains knowingly, flipping Liam the bird. “I’ve had it all figured out why, actually. I think he bonded our souls with the help of a witch a long time ago, just so he wouldn’t keep on losing me,” he says, voice going just loud enough for Liam to hear. 

“Shut up, Louis!” Liam shouts, making Louis cackle and beckon the knight over.

It’s a testament to just how much of a normal and down-to-earth person Louis is that he lets other people talk to him like this. Although Liam is no peasant by any means, he is still of a different social standing than Louis. The prince has explained to Harry a while back, though, just how much he actually cares for the lad.

Coming to the palace at the young age of seven, Liam, along with Zayn, has been one of Louis’ childhood friends. He told Harry before, the story of how they all became fast companions, with Zayn and Louis finding a crying, homesick Liam on one of the fields that they used to play in.

Harry’s asked why Liam was sent to the palace at such an early age, and Louis looks to Harry with a laugh devoid of any humor, saying that the younger you’re sent, the faster and higher your chances of knighthood are.

He explains how Louis and Zayn comforted the lad and how happy he actually was at the prospect of having someone other than his other fellow highborn to play with. He tells Harry of their adventures together, how Liam was assigned to Louis’ own prince’s guard, an apparently high status to any standing knight. He’s told all kinds of stories, but what surprised Harry the most was the one about how Louis found out that Zayn and Liam were together, in the most intimate form of the word.

Harry remembers how startled he was to hear that. A highborn and a knight together wasn’t completely unheard of, but if both were men? Well.

Harry remained quiet after Louis explained all about it, not knowing what to say. Louis evidently took the silence as Harry’s disapproval for he immediately gains vigor as he rounded on to Harry, telling him that if he had problems against the existing love between his best friends’ then he had to go through Louis first. 

Of course, Harry appeased the prince with a simple roll of his eyes, telling him that he was merely shocked. He recalls how the conversation after that felt a bit strained, the unsubtle glances Louis kept shooting him sending tingles up his spine.

That conversation happened a few weeks ago, on a very good day. A day that the two of them spent together, attached at the hip, Harry trailing along wherever Louis went: to his lessons, to a council meeting, to spend time with his sisters. It was a simple day, without much to do for Harry but merely watch as the prince lived his life, and yet… it was one of the nicest days for him. 

Every moment with Louis is simply wonderful, Harry thinks.

Suddenly, he’s then snapped out of his reverie as Liam sits beside him, the metal of his armor causing a loud clanging sound to resonate around the already noisy kitchens.

“Shh! Liam, for all the gods’ sake! We’re trying to hide here!” Louis reprimands, a scowl on his face as he reaches over Harry to slap Liam’s face.

Liam simply accepts the slap, years of dealing with Louis making him immune to all the prince’s tactics, and gives Louis an incredulous look. “You know you’re not fooling anyone right?”

Harry laughs and laughs, “Told you,” he says in between bouts of laughter. Louis tries to look sour, but the joy present on his face can be seen miles away.

Together, the three of them sit and eat random bowls of food throughout the day, talking about nothing and laughing about everything. Niall passes by them a few times, each time with a new item of food in his hand. He ruffles Harry’s hair, gives Liam a smile, and bows to Louis, which makes the man grumble all the more about his ineffective disguise.

They only stand up when a bored looking Zayn approaches them hours later, pinching then caressing Liam’s cheeks when he’s close enough. “Your mother asked me to ask you if you were done with your fooling around for the day,” he says to Louis, the calm expressions on his face truly astounding.

The prince squawks, if it were anyone else, it would have been severely unappealing. Alas, it was Louis so Harry was still hopelessly endeared.

“How did she know where I was?”

At this Zayn just gives him the most unimpressed look he could muster and walks away.

A few beats later and the shouted, “you’re not fooling anyone, you know!” makes Liam and Harry double over in mirth.

~*~

In all honesty, because of the distraction that Louis has become to Harry in the days after they reconciled, Harry has completely forgotten about Louis’ grandiose birthday ball.

When he does remember, of course, he freaks out. 

He’s in his and Niall’s rooms, the sun already down, both of them preparing for slumber when it hits him. The ball is tomorrow.

He yelps, surprising Niall who immediately stumbles back on his bed, head stuck in his dress shirt. “Gods, Harry!”

“Niall! The ball is tomorrow!” Harry says, hands clasped around his chest.

“Uh, yeah? Fuck you think everyone’s runnin’ around the place like headless chickens for?” Niall gripes as he tries to pull off his shirt completely.

Harry, being the kind person that he is, pulls on the back of the shirt, freeing Niall of his constraint. “Gods, How can I forget?” He moans, sitting beside the other lad, a pout present on his lips.

“How _could_ you forget? You were literally with his highness when he was fitting for his tunic, silks and what not,” He says, flourishing his hands and adopting a posh accent as he describes Louis’ clothes.

He’s true, of course. Harry _was_ present when Louis was with his tailor, watching as pins and needles were poked through the fine material on the prince’s body, laughing as the royal made faces visible on the floor length mirror where he was standing in front off.

That was the first time Harry’s ever had the pleasure to touch silk and velvet, and see peacock feathers. Such luxuries had no place in a peasant’s life.

“It’s just — I’ve been spending so much time with him that I forgot about him. If that makes sense?” He says as Niall shakes his head at him.

“It doesn’t make sense, no, but I’ve gotten used to you actually never making sense so.”

“Niall! What am I going to do?” He bemoans, leaning his head on the other man’s shoulder.

“What do you mean? You’re going to cook food, greet the prince a blasting birthday, probably kiss him a little and make babies. Best gift ever,” Niall says, cackling madly as Harry punches his shoulder, a wild blush present on the baker’s cheeks.

“We’re not like that, you know. We’re friends,” He says after Niall’s laughter has died down. He sighs thinking about the royal and how unbelievably close they’ve gotten in the past few weeks.

“You sure about that?” The other man asks, rubbing on his shoulder that was hit. “I mean, he’s been spending these last weeks with you. Although, from what you’ve told me, he hasn’t exactly been, uhm, consistent.”

The best thing about having a roommate, Harry thinks, is that it’s much like having a journal that can talk back. As much as he values Niall much more than he could any journal, he must say, it’s good to have someone listen to all the rampant thoughts gliding in his head.

Ever since the day that Harry told Niall of his, er, affections for the prince, the other man has made it his first priority to ask Harry everything about his ‘star-crossed love affair’ or so he dubs it. Every moment that he sees Niall, he usually isn’t greeted with a ‘hi’ or ‘how was your day’. Instead, he’s bombarded with questions regarding the prince, of whether they’ve fallen madly in love already and all that.

“No, he’s actually better now. Hasn’t been cold in days, which. Amazing,” Harry says a little dreamily. He still can’t believe it for himself, that the prince is actually a much reasonable human being to him now.

“Well, what’s your problem then?”

“He’s very rich,” Harry says knowingly, nodding his head and looking at Niall with wide eyes.

Niall looks back at him for a second, two, ten, then —

“What?”

“He’s very rich!” Harry exclaims suddenly, making the other lad startle.

“Bloody fucking — of course he’s rich, you shit! He’s a fucking prince! Honestly, mate, I know I said I’ve gotten used to not understanding what you’re saying but help me out a little,” the stable boy grumbles.

Harry sighs and shakes his head. “He’s very rich,” he repeats again for the third time and continues as he hears Niall’s unimpressed grunt. “And he has everything he could ever want. What am I going to give him as a gift?”

Without a second’s pause and hesitation, Niall immediately says, “Babies.”

“Babies?” Harry repeats skeptically.

Niall places his hands on Harry’s shoulders’ and shakes him, “Babies!” He says again, a bit more vigorously this time.

 _Babies_. Okay.

Harry nods at Niall, copies the other lad’s motion and grips his shoulders. They nod at each other and simultaneously say, “Babies.”

~*~

Because Harry is neither pregnant nor a woman, and he’s fairly certain that a baby really wouldn’t make all that good of a gift to a royal prince, he doesn’t get Louis babies.

He can only hope that his alternative doesn’t suck. 

Waking up on the day of their crown prince’s birthday was much like every other day; the service people’ still bustled around—albeit more frantically than usual—the kitchens was still in uproar preparing breakfast, and Niall was on the bed beside his, mumbling about lack of sleep.

All in all, it was a normal start to a morning and Harry expected as much for the rest of pre-lunch when a knock comes to his door.

He’s just returned from his morning walk, not having to prepare breakfast like the others as he was told the prince was yet to wake. He wondered about whom it could be as he approaches the door, grabbing the handle and swinging it open.

It’s Liam.

“Morning, mate!” The man says cheerily, smile stretching his lips. He already has his armor on and the glinting of the silver metal holds an equal weight to the brightness of Liam’s smile.

“Uh, good morning, Liam,” Harry says, confusion apparent with the way his eyebrows are wrinkled. “What brings you to my humble abode?”

A large, brown package is then thrust into Harry’s arms, plush, but certainly not lightweight. “For you,” Liam says, eyes knowing.

Knowing what? Harry is none too aware.

“For me?” He repeats, looking down at the package that has a blue ribbon tied neatly around it, but no visible card that could indicate to whom it was from.

The knight nods as confirmation, “For you. It’s from His Royal Highness.”

Oh.

“Oh.”

“Yeah,” Liam says, eyes twinkling, cheery smile turning smug. “Sweet one, he is, yeah?”

“Stop talking, Liam,” Harry replies quietly, the other man snickering at the dazed expression on his face as he looks at the package in a different light. “Are you sure he said it was for me?”

Liam rolls his eyes, pats Harry’s shoulder, and leaves.

Which, rude.

But—

A gift. From _Louis_.

Hurriedly, he turns, slams the door, and shrieks.

“Fucking— Harry! What in the underworld’s horror are you shouting for at this time of day?” Niall exclaims, looking at Harry as if he’s grown another head and a pair of eyes to match.

“Louis gave me a gift!” Harry screams, stretching his arms out and presenting Niall the said object.

They both stare at it for a few beats, before Niall lunges and tries to take it from him. Harry, already adapted to his roommate’s way of thinking, turns his body and rolls on the floor, kicking Niall in the face as he does so.

“It’s my gift! I get to open it!” He shouts, slapping the other man’s hands as he crawls towards the hastily thrown package.

“Well, open it already then, you blundering twat!”

Harry stands, as dignified as he can given what just occurred, dusts himself off while glaring at an irate Niall, and moves towards the gift. He picks it up, reveling again at how it’s in his hands, and moves to sit on his bed. In an instant, Niall is beside him, looking like a puppy excited to go for a walk.

“Open it, open it!” He chants.

Harry opens it.

He unties the ribbon carefully and sets it aside, gently unfolds the wrapping paper—much to the dismay of an already over eager Niall (he doesn’t want to tear it, okay. He’s going to keep it. He’s sentimental like that.)—and on the last fold, just before the gift itself is seen, he stops.

“What.” Niall says blankly, as if he’s already spent all his energy on bouncing about, trying to make Harry hurry up.

“I’m scared,” the baker states.

“Why?”

“What if it’s like a rope or something for the gallows, for them to hang me. Or poison, or a knife! You never know with Louis. I’m scared,” he explains, looking at Niall with fear.

Niall smacks him in the head. “Get on with it already! I love gifts!”

Harry breathes in, out, and unfolds.

He’s met with—cloth.

“Oh,” both he and Niall breathe out.

He takes it and unfolds it, finding out that it isn’t just one article of clothing, but a whole regal looking ensemble.

“Oh,” he mumbles again, awe lacing his whole body.

The first item he picks up is a full-length frock coat. It’s a wonderful, rich shade of ebony, linings of flowers and vines sewn on its edges with what looks like thread encrusted with gold. The detail is extraordinarily fine, embroidery coming from the clavicle to the knees, shoulders to the elbows. Harry runs his hands over it, feeling the soft texture and gasps as he realizes that it’s nothing but luxurious velvet. Thumbing at the embroidery, he’s surprised as he feels small bumps along it, and upon closer inspection, sees that they’re topaz gems studded at every center of each flower.

“Fuck,” he says breathlessly, Niall’s responding, “wow” lost to his ears as he continues to adore the coat.

The other man gently nudges him after a few seconds, though, and points towards the rest of the package. “Still more where that came from, H.” 

Nodding, Harry gingerly sets aside the coat, and reaches inside the package to pull out a tunic. Much like the frock coat, it resembled the shadows with its splendid black color. This clothing wasn’t lined with gold, though. Instead, in the middle of it, right at where Harry believes his sternum down to his abdominals would be, lies a beautiful pattern, ruby red detail. It’s sparkling color stands out amongst the darkness of the tunic, and setting it aside the frock coat, it seems to match beautifully; the gold, red, and ebony of the two articles clashing together strikingly.

He once again reaches inside the package, noting that only one item is left inside. In his hands is a pair of silk, by the gods, _silk_ trousers. They’re the smoothest things Harry’s ever had the pleasure to touch, he is sure. It feels as if water is gliding through his fingertips as he grazes them on the cloth, marveling at the once again ebony cloth.

Finally, he pulls out finely made leather bound boots that reaches up to his knees, with topaz gems also lining the sides of it, matching the frock coat perfectly.

He places the footwear beside the other articles of clothing and stares.

“Wow,” Niall breathes, laughing after some time. “Well, good news is, he’s as whipped as you are!” He exclaims cheerily, looking to Harry with a bright grin. His smile dims, though, as he sees the confusion plastered on the other man’s face. “Harry?" 

“I just—why? I mean, I’m assigned to serve for the feast later, why all this?” Harry mumbles, thumbing on the finely crafted fabric.

Niall looks at him for a second before reaching for the forgotten, and now empty, package. He feels around inside of it, exclaims, and pulls out a card. “Here’s why!” He says, handing over the card.

“What? You’re not going to be nosy and try to read it?” Harry stalls, fingers shaking minutely as he takes the card.

Niall shrugs nonchalantly and pats his bed, motioning for Harry to join him. “Can’t really read, can I?”

“Oh, sorry.”

The other boy rolls his eyes, shoulder bumping Harry when the other boy has settled beside him. “Go on then, I want to hear this.”

Harry takes a deep breath and opens the card, reads it aloud.

 _Harry,_

_If you thought you were being subtle with the way you were staring at the velvet and silk in my tailor’s quarters, then you are mercifully wrong. Lucky for you, I am a great prince, and, of course, a good friend._

_In the package is everything you would need for tonight’s ball. I’ve arranged for it to fit you specifically, but if anything’s at fault, please do not hesitate to ask my tailor to fix it. You know where he resides._

_I’ve also talked to James about your duties. Consider yourself and Niall free of labor tonight. You can do whatever it is that pleases you, although I hope you will find me? As it is, I would love to spend time with you._

_I cannot wait to see you in these, truth be told. I know you would look nothing short of spectacular. Well, more so than usual._

_I hope you enjoy the festivities. As you should for they are in honor of me!_

_Yours,_

_Louis_

It’s written in wonderful scrawl, and harry brings the card to his chest looking at a grinning Niall.

“Good lad, that Louis! I don’t have to manage the guests’ horses later,” he says. “I knew complaining about it to him would work,” Niall grins mischievously and Harry swats him, an affronted noise escaping his mouth.

“Don’t _use_ him like that, you bastard!” He scolds. “And when did you find the time to talk to him anyway?” 

“He goes for a ride with Luna everyday before dinner. He’s funny, man,” Niall says.

“I _know_ he’s funny,” Harry argues childishly because he does. Louis _is_ funny; Harry knows this, probably laughs around Louis way too much. It’s not his fault the prince is perfect, okay.

“Yeah, yeah,” Niall says, dismissing him as he waves his hands about. “Tell me, then, are you going?”

“Don’t really have a choice, do I? It’d be rude not to,” he shrugs, gaze drifting to the expensive ensemble. “And besides, it would be a waste not to wear that. Probably costs more than my whole house.”

“Mate, they probably cost more than _you,_ ” Niall says, narrowly avoiding another swat from Harry.

“But, wouldn’t it be peculiar? All of the people in the main ballroom would be highborn. And they get announced too! I don’t have a bloody title!” Harry cries as the realization strikes him. Even with all the fancy clothing, when placed in a room full of aristocrats, it would be obvious that he doesn’t belong.

“You just have to be refined and snotty, ‘s not going to be that hard,” Niall shrugs.

“Niall!” Harry whines, theatrics and all.

“Listen, H, I know a lot of people in this palace and I’m pretty damn sure that you’re the only one who received a direct invitation. So _go for it,”_ the stable boy says, enunciating his words clearly and forcefully. “Besides, if you’re still nervous in, say, an hour in or so, you could always come down to the service people’s hall. Our party’s probably better, anyway.”

The good thing about royal balls was that the aristocrats in the palace and those coming to Solbourne weren’t the only ones who get to celebrate it. The festivities touch everyone, even the service people who are provided with their own hall, feast, and livery music to enjoy. Only a special few are pulled out to serve for the highborn in the main ballroom, but, of course, their services were well compensated.

Seeing as this is the first ball hosted since Harry’s been here, he doesn’t really know what to expect.

Gaze trailing towards the lavish ensemble, though, he can honestly say that he’s _excited_ for it. Knowing that he could play pretend for a night, being able to live within the luxury that he’s only been dreaming of before was… well, he only thought of it as nothing but impossible before.

Now, right here, given the chance, and by _Louis_ , of all people, who is he to refuse?

~*~

 _The colors of the frock coat and tunic brings out the color of my eyes_ , is the first thought that comes to his mind when he looks at himself in the mirror.

The next is, _holy fucking, bleeding queen of hell, I’m actually doing this._

He turns to Mary.

“Holy fucking, bleeding queen of hell, I’m actually doing this, Mary,” he says to the woman behind him who’s tousling his hair into a more acceptable form of a wild mane than it usually is.

“I would appreciate it if you continue doing it without spewing so many curses, love,” Mary says undeterred, returning his head from the position it had been in before.

He makes a high whining noise that emerges from the back of his throat, sounding much like a child’s wail. “I’m nervous,” he pouts, watching from the mirror as Mary’s hands glide through his hair.

“Nothing to be nervous about, sweetheart. It’s going to be great!” She exclaims, patting Harry’s shoulders and squeezing his cheeks. “All done.”

Harry nods, stands, and looks at himself in the mirror one last time. _Alright_.

 

 

~*~ 

It has been a few minutes since he’s entered the great hall and, unsurprisingly, he was still dazzled. It’s not that he’s never been here, hell, he even helped decorate it. It’s just that the transformation that occurred in the span of the time that he was getting primed and propped by Mary was _immense_.

There were pillars piled with candles everywhere, illuminating the room and the people in it. The golden laurels displayed from the ceiling bars, that Harry, himself, helped hang, were shining along with the gold and gems littered in everybody’s dresses and coats. The marble flooring was accentuated with plush carpets, padding the expensive soles of the footwear gliding on it.

Gone was the long table usually situated in the middle of it, in where the royal family customarily dined, where Harry watches them eat. Instead, it was replaced with elongated tabletops by the dozen spread out along the entirety of the hall, serving as a place for different entitled men and women to feast on. The more important you are, the closer your seat is to the royal table, resting by the front of the hall, farthest away from the ornate doors.

As it seems, everybody in the room has been announced, the countless ringing of _Lord this_ , _Countess that_ , and such ending after what seemed like ages, having around more than a hundred invited guests. They all scurry off after their titles have been broadcasted, the trumpets sound drifting in their wake.

Harry watches as each finely clad figure roam the hall, looking for their designated seats. He finds amusement in the expression that flashes along their faces at discovering where they are to stay; either with smugness and joy from being significant enough to be just a table away from the queen’s seat, or with irritation and dismay at being so far from.

Since Harry himself was probably of the lowest class in the filled hall, he locates his seat at the very back, near Michael who is above the staircases, holding the list of names with their titles, along with Jonathan and Richard who hold the trumpets, waiting for a royal arrival.

Once everyone has settled down, prim on his or her seat and with backs straight, a hushing silence fills the hall. The way the sound of small talk and formality disappears instantaneously startles Harry, and he wonders what caused the muteness. He looks around and sees as everyone, in sync, rise from where their finely crafted chairs hold them, heads turned toward the entrance.

After a sharp sound erupting from the trumpets, the doors open.

Queen Johannah enters the hall, more regal and refined than anyone else, with her chin tipped up, blank expression on her face, crown glinting on top of her head. Her eyes are calculating as she reaches the edge of the foyer that elevates her above from everyone else, and then turning mellow as she looks down on her subjects.

It is striking, Harry thinks, to know that everyone in this room holds their own immense power. Each one a possessor of lands, of armies of knights, of piles and piles of gold, and yet the queen, ever powerful, could look down on them all.

Yet, as majestic as she looks, it’s not her in which Harry wishes to see. He casts his eyes behind the queen for a second, trying to catch even just a tuff of fine brown hair, of smooth capes, and noble chains.

He sees nothing.

Everybody is announced and present, as it seems. That is except for the celebrant himself.

Distracted, Harry doesn’t notice that he is the only one still standing with his head upright. Upon seeing so, he immediately bows along with the other nobles, but his head isn’t in it, still thinking about a certain royal.

They all remain with their heads tipped down as Her Royal Majesty makes her way down the steps, along the aisle, and into her throne like chair.

“It warms my heart and delights me ever so to see all of you gathered here to night,” the queen addresses everyone, booming voice reverberating around the hall. Although she is by no means a tall woman, she stands higher and more dignified than all the souls inside the castle. “As you all know, on this day, a faithful twenty-two years ago, I gave fruit to the heir of the Solbourne throne. The next king and ruler of this blessed country, my son, prince Louis.”

The trumpets sound again, but to Harry’s ears, there was nothing but white noise.

He has never really understood what people meant when they say how breathtaking certain things are. The way his mother gasps, complimenting Gemma’s quality craftsmanship, her lithe hands moving across a superbly stitched dress. He remembers her saying how breathtaking it was, how fine a thing that a pair of hands could make from old, ragged sheets.

He, too, saw the beauty in the dress, the way an old thing could be reborn into something else _was_ amazing, but certainly not to the point of breathlessness. He never asked, shrugging it off and giving it up to her mother’s simple exaggeration.

But, now. 

 _Now_ , he feels his breath purposefully stolen from his lungs. They’re empty, but the cavity in his chest, his _heart_ , feels so full.

Louis looks nothing short of radiant. Standing proudly on the foyer, he looks like the sun. He _is_ the sun. With his tan skin and the red hues of his cape complimenting each other perfectly. The golden silk stretched across his sternum, orange and yellow tinges clasping around his biceps, the customary chain of noblemen hanging from his shoulders.

He imitates his mother, going to the edge of the foyer, proceeding to look down on everybody. Everyone has bowed once more, half out of custom and half out of genuine respect.

Harry tries to catch Louis’ eyes as he passes along the aisle, to his dismay though, the prince’s gaze is locked to his mother, and his thin lips uncharacteristically pressed tight, unease apparent on his face.

Taking a closer look, Harry sees how Louis’ shoulders are held stiff, wrought with tension. His fists are balled into tight fists; the bones on his already normally protruded knuckles stripped of any color, turning white.

He racks his brain for anything that might help him understand what made Louis so clearly uncomfortable, tries to remember if the prince ever mentioned a thing to him in passing. Harry thumbs at his lips, pulls and pinches, his head still bowed low as he waits for Louis to finally approach the table.

He feels a sickening, leaden weight bloom in his chest and tries to tamp it down, attributing it to the mere illusions of his paranoid mind.

 ~*~

Considering the amount of gold and silver that is probably spent on these royal balls and banquets, Harry cannot be blamed when he expected it to be more, well, _alive_.

The feast has been over for a few minutes now, everyone having been relocated to the main ballroom where there are no tables everywhere for people to bump into. The floor is wide and open, free for anyone to grab a partner and dance, which is what is currently happening, dresses and trousers spinning about in circles, striding along the merriment. The band of musicians is at the side, playing their instruments, the sound flowing through the air, clearer than a stream of water. Servers are going around, some high fiving Harry, others good-humoredly mocking him, bowing before offering a shrimp.

It is honestly the most extravagant thing that he’s ever been a part of, but he can’t help but be so utterly, mind-numbingly bored.

For one, he knows no one here and vice versa, therefore no one attempts to talk to him. He doesn’t know if they’ve realized that Harry doesn’t belong or if they simply are just snobs. Which, _whatever_ , he thinks. He only came here for one person, anyway.

He’s been strolling around the room casually, or he hopes it looks casual, trying to spot that familiar radiant face he’s come to admire. So far, he has only seen sneers and jeers from noblemen and women alike who’s main concern is to gossip about one another. He’s truthfully thinking about giving up and just calling it a day, growing steadily more uncomfortable around the unfamiliar environment as the minutes tick by when, suddenly, there are hands grasping his shoulders.

He startles, but quickly turns, chest filling with hope.

“Oh, I’m sorry I am such a disappointment,” Zayn drawls mockingly, noticing the way Harry’s face inevitably falls when he realized it wasn’t who he was expecting.

Harry splutters, tries to explain when Zayn holds up his hand and rolls his eyes. “Save it, baker boy. Where is he?” The nobleman asks, one perfectly coiffed eyebrow rising.

“Uhm…What?” Harry questions nonplussed, having no idea what this Adonis of a man is asking of him. Surprisingly, throughout the time that he’s spent inside the Claror palace and following Louis about, he has actually never had a significant encounter with Zayn. Sure, Louis tells him all kinds of stories about the man, the wealth of his family and his job as an heir of a duchy, but a good, long conversation between the two of them has yet to occur.

Zayn grumbles whilst he crosses his arms, and looks up at Harry. “Where is he? Where’s Louis?” The man asks again, more pointedly this time, a hint of real worry and confusion melding into his voice. “Isn’t he with you?”

Harry blinks at the man. Slowly, he starts shaking his head. “I’ve, uhm. I’ve actually been looking for him?” He says, voicing it out as a question rather than a statement for the fear of Zayn finding him pathetic. He still isn’t actually sure if Louis wanted to see him here in his celebration or if this whole ordeal of giving Harry clothes and such was another one of the prince’s notorious pranks in the making.

He soon forgets about the possible embarrassment he might encounter, though, when he sees the foreboding expression that Zayn holds. “What is the matter, uhm, Your Grace?” Harry asks, cringing as the nobleman turns to him with a sharp look. 

“You’re sure you haven’t seen him?” He asks once more, eyes daring Harry to try to even lie. The look scares him more than he likes to admit. Seeing as Zayn is understandably protective of Louis, he knows it’s only smart to be terrified.

He shakes his head again, firmly this time.

He and Zayn look at each other’s eyes for a second before the other man sighs and scrubs his face raggedly.

“Fuck, fuck,” he says quietly, almost as if he’s talking to himself. “He’s doing it again.” He looks at Harry and the quick change of demeanor baffles the man a tad. Gone is Zayn’s cold and threatening appearance, and in its place now is a mere sheepish expression. “Sorry bout that, mate. Needed to scare you a bit to find out if you kidnapped Louis or whatever." 

Harry splutters again at the sheer thought, but Zayn ignores it, choosing instead to drag Harry off into a more secluded corner. 

“Listen,” he starts once they’re hidden behind a curtain. “Louis has these…moods. When he has his moods, he often tends to just vanish to the point where no one could find him for a few hours,” the raven-haired man explains to a wide-eyed Harry. “Liam and I, we usually just let him have his time, yeah? We don’t tell anyone about it if it’s just a normally stressful day. But,” he pauses taking a deep breath. He takes a peek at the people on the other side of the heavy fabric, nods to someone, before returning back to face Harry. “Something happened to him tonight, Harry. He won’t tell me what, but it’s serious. I _know_ him. He won’t just run off like this if it wasn’t, not when he knows that he’s needed in a few hours to make a thank you speech. Appease the nobles and all that.”

Harry takes in what Zayn just told him, the worry in his gut increasing as the seconds go by, his mind already running off, thinking about horrid things that could have happened to Louis. “Why are you telling me this?” He finally asks Zayn boldly, all traces of respect towards hierarchy gone now that Louis is in his mind.

Zayn nods, as if understanding the lack of formal address. His voice takes on a calm but determined tone when he answers the question. “He’s been spending a lot of his time with you, Harry. Do you know any place where he could be? I’d leave him to himself, but we really need him here right now.” Zayn responds, and Harry doesn’t even need a minute to think about where Louis could be.

“I think I know where he is.”

At Zayn’s hopeful expression, Harry quickly resumes what he wanted to say. “But I’d like to go get him myself. I mean, if that’s alright with you?”

The nobleman narrows his eyes at this, questioning. “It’s, uhm, well, I think he’s in our, you know, place,” he finishes lamely. He didn’t realize that his hands were gesticulating wildly, a nervous habit of his, and he lets them rest on his side. 

“ _Your_ place?” Zayn asks, the beginnings of a smirk present on the corner of his mouth. Harry blushes and he scrubs his cheeks childishly, not meeting the other man’s sparkling, brown eyes. 

“Yeah, well, I mean—” He’s stopped as Zayn cuts him off with a laugh, shaking his head all the while. 

“I love Louis, I seriously do,” He begins, and Harry’s head snaps up, eyes wide as he processes the meaning of what Zayn is trying to tell him. Understanding dawns on the other man’s face, though, and he rolls his eyes as an answer. “Not like that, that’s just _wrong_! Louis is my _brother_. I care for him, okay? For the longest time, it’s just been him, Liam, and I. I just always thought that Li and I already got Louis, you know? How his brain works and all that; then you come along and it’s just amazing, honestly. No one has ever even been able to _affect_ Louis as much as you do, Harry.” Zayn levels him with a stare once he finishes his spiel, unspoken words lingering between them. 

After a second, Harry starts to respond but he’s already met with Zayn’s retreating back. “Be here with Louis in two hours please.” 

~*~

He stumbles as he exits the main ballroom; stone lining of the doorway catching under his foot.

He’s in route to the underground pond that Louis’ showed him what seemed like ages ago with a feeling in his chest that that is where the prince is hiding. Currently, he’s walking briskly along the edges of a quiet part of the gardens, not unkempt but certainly lacking in splendor than the other parts of the grounds. It appears to be more of a meadow with small tufts of colorful wildflowers, trivial enough to be ignored by the gardeners.

With the darkness of the night, his only source of light is the moon and the fireflies milling about. It’s serene and the type of place that Harry would usually stop for a while and revel in, but right now, the only thing on his mind is Louis. He knows that this path is a shortcut and in just a few more turns, a door would appear that leads directly to the hallway where the underground pond is.

As he approaches the door, though, he hears a quiet sniffling.

His first reaction is, of course, to be frightened to the bone. He backs into the sturdy brick wall of the palace, clutching his heart as he adjusts his eyes to the darkness to see beyond the meadow. He doesn’t believe in ghosts, per say. It’s just that once you start hearing stories all over the palace, you really couldn’t help but have a slight paranoia for them.

He strains his ears, tries not to breathe heavily as to be able to hear another sniffle when it comes. As if on cue, his ears pick the sound up again.

Harry takes a steady breath and walks forward towards the small noise, hoping against hope that today is not the day he gets brutally murdered by a poltergeist.

What he sees, thankfully enough, is what he was looking for.

Or, rather, _who_.

Sitting crossed legged on the ground, with the bottoms of his coat smudged with dirt, is His Royal Highness Prince Louis, complete with a tear stained face and red eyes.

“Lou?” Harry murmurs, hands stretching out to touch the prince’s shoulder.

Louis startles, not having heard Harry’s slow and gentle footsteps. He turns abruptly, making Harry snatch his hand back before it has even reached its destination. “Harry?” Louis mumbles, voice croaky and strained.

And Harry just—he just _hurts_. Hurts that Louis is hurting, hurts that he doesn’t know why, hurts that he hasn’t been by Louis’ side all this time.

“Hey, yeah, Lou, it’s me,” he answers, equally as quiet. He sits down beside the prince, not minding one bit about the dirt that’s bound to wrap themselves around the most expensive articles of clothing that he would probably ever own in his whole life. All that matters to him right now is Louis; the way he’s sniffling and trying to rid the tears in his eyes, the way he’s breathing is labored, like he’s been sobbing a while.

All that matters to Harry is Louis.

Louis turns to him and squints, as if he’s trying to make out Harry’s appearance. Because of the futile lighting, he gives up and instead rests his head on Harry’s shoulder. “Remind me to take a good look at you once we have some light. Bet you look wonderful,” He says, and on any other given day, Harry would blush and paw at his chest, cheekily teasing him about how he’s going soft. Right now, though, he knows what Louis’ is trying to do.

“Are you okay, Lou?” He asks gently, lifting the shoulder that Louis’ head is resting on so that it bobs with the motion.

Louis huffs, caught. Harry has learned him, knows him enough by now to know when he’s trying to take control of the conversation, steer it into a topic that he’s comfortable cruising in. 

“I’m fine,” the prince answers, going for a laugh that just sounds cringingly fake to Harry’s ears.

“You don’t have to do that, you know,” he states firmly, catching Louis’ eyes. “You don’t have to pretend around me. It’s just _me_ , Lou.”

Harry, aiming to be comforting and warm, is disconcerted at the emotion that flashes before Louis’ face: sadness, fear, and acceptance. He doesn’t understand, doesn’t know and wants to know, desperately so. He just wants to take away Louis’ pain, and if that’s not possible, then maybe share it, so that he doesn’t carry it alone.

“Lou?” He asks again, softer this time, the darkness of the night and the warmth of Louis’ breath caressing his cheeks. Suddenly, he’s aware of how close their faces are, doesn’t know when or how, but it’s happening and Harry holds a breath, doesn’t want to get his hopes up just to be let down again.

Finally, Louis breaks the silence.

“You don’t know how much you mean to me, Harry,” he whispers, beautiful words carried by the wind into Harry’s ears.

With that, he closes the gap that separates them.

The feeling of Louis’ lips on his is unlike any other. The sensations blind him, makes everything else beside this, here, and right now with Louis, nonexistent. They don’t touch, they _intertwine_ , Louis’ lips together with Harry’s; and everything is just _right_. Technically, it’s not perfect. Their noses bump and Harry manages to bite on Louis’ bottom lip from the shock, but to him, to _them_ , it’s the greatest thing. 

It’s gentle, at first, Louis’ hands lifting to cup Harry’s blushing cheeks, and he, in return, places his hands on the prince’s chest, feels the rapid thumping of the heart that he’s gotten to know, the one that he wants to spend maybe forever figuring out.

But then Louis opens his mouth, swipes his tongue on Harry’s supple lips, and Harry is powerless.

He shivers, won’t and _can’t_ hold it in. The feeling is overwhelming and at the some time not nearly enough. He feels a hand sliding around his neck, pulling him closer, ever closer, and he gets lost in it, the moment and the prince capturing him in bliss. 

He doesn’t know how long the kiss lasts, doesn’t know if it’s hours or months, days or minutes, time isn’t real in that instant, and he would’ve made it last forever but the need for air in his lungs comes back with a vengeance making him have to pull away.

Harry doesn’t even remember when he closed his eyes, but he would never forget what meets him when he opens them.

The way Louis is smiling at him, soft and gentle, a touch filled with happiness, another with content, it makes his heart beat faster, pounding in his chest, a clear juxtaposition against the calmness of the meadow. 

His lips are red and plush when he bites down a smile. “You don’t know how long I’ve wanted to do that,” Louis says, hands reaching up to caress Harry’s cheeks again. When Harry doesn’t answer, he pulls back his hand, a quick flash of terror appearing in his eyes.

Harry, realizing what’s happening, quickly takes Louis’ hand and holds them on his own cheek, trapping the prince’s dainty palm in between his own hand and cheek. “You’re so beautiful, Lou,” Harry says, praises, _acclaims_.

Louis laughs as an answer, shy and quiet, but beautiful all the same. His eyes are downcast now, and Harry won’t have it, has to see those sparkling cerulean looking back at him, feels a bit light headed without them.

He tips Louis’ chin up, thrills at the way Louis follows, at the way he’s actually allowed to touch so intimately.

“I know it’s unorthodox, and that this is probably the first story you will ever hear of it happening,” Louis says, words catching on his throat, but he’s gaze is locked on Harry, though. His eyes intense, like he’s willing himself to be brave enough to say whatever it is that he needs to utter. “And it’d be horrid of me to ask of you to hide, but Harry,” he pauses, grasping Harrys hands tight, his own hands being engulfed in the process. “Will you be mine?”

He can feel his heart stop for a second, skipping a beat, then drumming thunderously inside his chest. His eyes widen, mind buzzing at what Louis is implying.

“Are you—what? What are you trying to say, Louis?” He says, a bit louder than the volume they’ve been using to talk that it makes Louis’ flinch a bit. “No, no, just—help me understand. What?” He tries, gentler this time.

“Be mine? Against all odds, please be mine. And I’ll be yours too,” Louis says with a decisive nod.

“You’re a prince,” Harry answers confusedly, pointing out the obvious. “And I’m, I’m just a poor baker, Lou. What will everyone say?”

It’s not that he doesn’t want to. No, of course he does, the excited pitter patter of his heart is indicative of how much he actually _craves_ for Louis. But, he has to look out for his prince, protect him from what the people, what the highborn inside the ballroom right now would say if they found out that their crown prince had intimate relations with a _peasant_. He can’t do it to Louis, cares too much for him for that.

“We hide it,” the prince answers instantly, shaking Harry’s hand. “I know the consequences and I know it won’t be easy, Harry, but please. I’ve been driving myself crazy these past few months thinking about you, wishing I could do what I just did. I’ve been wanting to kiss you ever since you saw me that first day in the kitchens, H.”

And Harry can’t help but laugh at that, at the way Louis laughs back, the memory of what’s happened and the history between the two of them. He breathes easier, strangely enough, remembering his time here, how he, himself, has driven to the point of madness hating, missing, wanting the prince all at the same time.

He tries to think rationally, grapples the haze in his brain and strains to remember why it would be horrible to hide what’s between them. But, with the way Louis is looking at him, eyes bright even in the darkness and so, _so_ hopeful, he knows that he won’t ever be able to say no.

He starts nodding slowly then faster and steadier as he sees the happiness simply erupt in Louis’ face. “I’m yours,” he says proudly and almost cries at the way Louis instantaneously says it back. 

They fall into each other, a mess of limbs and heartstrings at once, clutching at whatever part of each other they could have.

After a while, Harry pulls away and smiles at Louis. “Zayn’s worried sick, you know? He’s been looking for you. Said he needed you back in about two hours,” he informs Louis, chuckling at the way Louis pouts childishly.

“I want to stay here with you, Harry,” he answers, melting Harry’s heart in the process. “Everyone up there is fake and pretentious, I want to stay here, where I know everything is real.”

Harry kisses him again, of course. Couldn’t really help it, with his sweet mouth and the honey-covered words falling out of them. “I know, love,” he whispers into Louis’ mouth, “but you have to.”

Louis merely closes his eyes, nods, and stands up. He pulls Harry off of the ground, the both of them dusting their frocks and trousers, trying (and failing,) to rid them of the dirt.

Once it becomes apparent that there’s nothing more they can do, Louis makes to go, but Harry pulls him back in.

“What—?”

He grabs Louis’ hands and pushes the object into them. Louis looks at him first then opens his palms that closed around what Harry gave him. “Happy birthday, Lou,” Harry whispers, shy all of a sudden. He’s seen the table full of gifts at Louis ballroom, and he knows his is small and insignificant in comparison, but he hopes Louis’ won’t mind. “I almost forgot to give this to you. It’s not really anything compared to what you’re used to getting, but—”

“Shut your trap, Harry. I love it,” Louis says, grinning at him widely, but his eyes are shimmering, damp.

They look at the glow of the small, golden, baby starfish, the way it twinkles like a real star in the night.

“What is it?” Louis asks Harry, thumbs carefully stroking the living thing not even amounting to half the size of his one hand.

“It’s a Chrysus,” Harry says and at the curious quirk of Louis’ eyebrows, he laughs. “Basically it’s a golden dirt starfish that only comes out of the deep soil during winter. It’s really popular amongst towns people cause they’re worth a lot of coins, seeing as they’re made of real gold,” he explains. He strokes the starfish too, feels the way it hums at his touch.

“They’re alive, you see,” he continues, voice angry, brow furrowed. “And they’ve gotten so used to being hunted that it’s rare to see them around. It’s pretty disgusting what some people do to them once they’re caught. They treat the Chrysus as if it’s just a plain ore, metal or something, heating it up and all that. You can hear its small squeals, its crying, and it’s heartbreaking. They usually come in groups, a big cluster of them forming into one clump. That’s why I took this one and gave it to you, cause without care, it’ll die pretty fast, seeing as it’s just a baby,” Harry finishes, revealing in the way Louis brings the small creature into his chest, promising with his eyes that he’ll protect it, love it. 

“Thank you, Harry,” he says, “I absolutely love it.”

Harry simply nods and watches as Louis delicately places the small Chrysus in his pocket, laughing as he makes sure that it’s still there just seconds later. 

“I want another gift, though,” Louis states regally, raising his eyebrows up at Harry, his chin tipped up as if he’s really making a royal command.

“Oh?” Harry questions, playing along, smile never vanishing from his face.

Louis makes an affirming sound then surprises him as he makes a formal bow, bending at his waist, one hand placed neatly behind him, the other extending towards Harry. “May I have a dance, good sir?”

Harry laughs and laughs, watches as Louis stays in the position, before understanding that the prince is serious. As a way of a reply, he gives the best kind of curtsy that he could manage, copying all that he remembers from seeing all the highborn dancing in the ballroom.

They touch, they laugh, and they dance together to the beat of the nonexistent drum. The calmness in the meadow covers them like a blanket, the cold air nothing against the warmth shared between the two of them.

Later, when they’re making their way back to the ballroom, Harry remembers that Louis was crying and that he still doesn’t know why.

~*~

On normal days, Harry would absolutely hate the way the sun hits his face straight on and he would grumble about it for a while. He’s distracted by the weight on against his stomach, though.

The _bouncing_ weight on his stomach, he should say more appropriately.

He opens his eyes and isn’t surprised at the lovely, radiant, royal face of Louis meeting him. He’s dressed in his usually finery, though with the way the leather of his shoes are thicker, it seems as if today is a riding day.

“Get up, my love,” Louis says cheerily, smacking a kiss on Harry’s smiling lips. “We have to go now!”

Riding day it is, then. 

“Where we going, Lou?” He asks with his groggy morning voice.

“Well, in reality, it’s only me who has to go now seeing as mother only asked me to supervise a visit to a village, but now that we’re _lovers_ ,” He says, grinning and teasing, not forgetting how Harry called them lovers days ago. Harry groans and covers his face, knowing that he’ll never be able to escape the teasing. He fucking loves it. “You have to come with me, lover,” Louis finishes, tossing a pair of quality riding boots to Harry’s still prone body.

It’s only been a few days since Louis’ birthday, and since they got together, but Harry could already feel himself start wishing that it could last forever. The past few days have been everything to him, almost every moment spent in happy bliss with Louis. When he thinks about it, it’s almost exactly the same before they were together. They’re still messy, fooling around like best friends with Niall and Liam, and now, occasionally, Zayn too. The only visible difference is now, he can pull Louis into a searing kiss whenever no one is looking. 

He smiles to himself at the thought, and proceeds to pull Louis into a searing kiss, seeing as no one is looking.

~*~

The village that they visit is far away from the capital, bordering the forests of the Vicina, the neighboring country of Solbourne. The journey takes about less than half a day and they ride with their own individual horses, Harry with Navis, Louis with Luna, but they chat amicably, exchanging rough banter with Liam and Zayn as their own horses trudge along the path. Louis makes jokes and tell stories the whole trip, making the whole crew within hearing distance of him laugh and snort merrily.

They’re delivering supervisory goods, as he was informed. Every month, Louis visits at least two of the villages close to the palace, personally giving them goods to repay the taxes that they hand out. It’s a viable practice, with the people understanding and the crown generous. The other villages too far from the palace get their goods through knights and couriers, each town grateful for the help.

Once they start nearing the village, though, Harry starts noticing something a bit off. He’s heard from Kit that they were only minutes away, but the fact that he sees no one travelling to and fro the village, a custom in any town, gets him worried. He mentions it to Louis, trying to sound nonchalant about the whole ordeal, but the way Louis attitude changes, hardens so quick and fast, startles Harry into thinking that maybe he was right. Something _is_ wrong.

Louis pushes Luna into a gallop, surprising the dozen of knights and the coaches steering the carriages filled with goods.

The knights follow him without question, trying their best to catch up to the royal prince. After a moment’s hesitation and a confused glance to Zayn, who looks just as baffled as he is, they both push their horses to gallop too.

What meets him is, well, _terrible_. Agonizingly, heart wrenchingly terrible.

He sees Louis off his horse, surrounded by people of all ages, people who look worn down and hungry, as if they haven’t eaten for days. The expression on Louis face is one that he’s sure he has never seen, filled with pure fury, rage, and indignation.

He’s currently clutching at an old, feeble lady whose legs, it seems, have given up on her.

“Someone bring me food and water here right now!” Louis exclaims, face serious as he looks at the woman. Not a few seconds later comes what the prince asked for, and he feeds the woman himself, nurses her to rest before asking one of the knights to watch over her.

Harry, finally getting over his shock, gets down off Navis and hands the reigns to a knight who ties it around a pole. He, together with Zayn, approaches Louis calmly. The prince is talking to Liam and one of the townsmen, gesticulating wildly, his eyes burning.

He has to admit that Louis, like this, scares him. He can see the rage present in all of the prince’s movements, even the most miniscule ones. Can see the way this whole happening affects him, how it hurts Louis personally to see his people deprived of what they need. He tries to hide his fear, knowing that this isn’t about him or even Louis right now. This is about the people.

When they’ve finally reached the prince, Zayn is the first one to talk. “Lou…What happened?” He asks, calmly or as calmly as the situation can allow.

“Bandits,” Louis hisses, lips formed into a snarl. “Thieves from Vicina, their hungry citizens going around the forests to steal food, horses, and coins. It happened four days ago, and the bandits completely took everything, every horse, even every sack of potatoes. They had no means to contact us, their messenger pigeon towers having been burnt down. The only way was to go to the palace by foot, which is around a week’s travel at a fueled state,” he informs, hands shaking as he pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to calm down.

Harry is speechless, an ache in his chest as he looks around his fellow countrymen and women, starving and tired. He sees the destruction of a few houses, the blacks of what he assumes to be a former messenger tower, the relief in some of the villagers eyes to see help coming through.

He takes a breath and tries to reign in his emotions. “We have to go take care of them now, Lou,” He says soothingly, trying to placate Louis. He knows how Louis’ mind works now, better than ever before, and he can just tell that the first thing the prince is thinking of is a way to retaliate, to fight back. They don’t need that right now, the villagers need more than just revenge. He walks closer, mindful of all the eyes cast on Louis, the other man’s glinting crown on top of his head serving as a reminder of what they are outside of closed doors. He nudges Louis shoulder with his head and captures the other man’s gaze.

“We have to take care of them now,” he repeats. After a while and a few deep breaths they share, Louis nods.

They spend the rest of the day and all of the next giving out food and helping the people. Thankfully enough, no one was killed or heavily injured in the predictable defensive blows that some of the villagers tried to accomplish. It was a consolation Harry was willing to revel in.

Finally, they pack their camp to go back home, Louis making one last round talking to people, hearing them out and understanding their grievances, what they lost in the attacks. Harry looks at him during this whole time, follows but doesn’t speak. Just merely observes. He knows, in that moment, that he loves Louis, that he’s _in_ _love_ with him. His beautiful face, along with his golden heart, the way he cares, truly, honestly, cares for the people he will soon govern over.

Instead of saying anything, he smiles whenever Louis looks back at him.

They leave the town two days after they arrived it, it looks considerably more alive, with the children back on their feet and running around, playing with a few of the knights left behind incase any further attacks take place. Louis addresses them as a whole before leaving, promising more supplies, of help and protection from the crown. The people answer him with love, sending their gratitude with tearful exclamations that make Louis bow his head, overwhelmed.

Harry loves him so much.

In the middle of the journey, they take rest by a stream, refilling their jugs and taking time to eat. Louis pulls Harry away from prying eyes, from the knights, the coaches, from Liam and Zayn, and kisses him. Filled with hunger, desperation, but a scarily different kind. Like he’s afraid, like he doesn’t want it to stop. 

In the middle of the kiss, Harry feels the dampness on his cheeks and pulls away to see tears flowing from Louis eyes. “Lou?” He asks, unsure of what is happening, of what’s going on in Louis mind.

He sees Louis smile at him, the smile fragile and sad, his eyes roaming around Harry’s face, like he’s memorizing every detail. “What’s wrong?” He continues his query, brows furrowing further as Louis shakes his head. The prince wipes his tears and looks away, but Harry can still see the way his hands are shaking.

“I’m just stressed. Let’s go back, my love,” he replies steadily, not once looking at Harry.

Before Harry can reply, Louis is already moving back to camp.

~*~

Looking at the sky, at all the bright colors exploding in them, the loud sounds thrumming in his whole being, with his favorite boy beside him, well, it makes him feel _infinite_. Makes him feel endless, timeless, like he’s the personification of forever.

They’re at one of the palace’s towers, hidden away from all the other people watching as the dark sky fractures and glows. When Louis told him that tonight, this new year’s, that they had something from the other side of the world, a special product that could make the night sky explode with thousands of stars, Harry’s only response was to laugh at him.

Now, he can’t stop clapping, a warm feeling exploding in his chest as he pulls Louis closer to the point that he’s sure his hold is bruising.

“What are these called again, Lou?” He shouts to the prince to be overheard over the chaos of the explosions, eyes never training away from their light.

He hears Louis’ laugh close to his ear, shivers at the breath on his neck, before he gets his answer. “Fireworks, love. They’re fireworks,” he answers, nosing at Harry’s neck.

Harry smiles and nods, he tilts Louis’ head so that he could gaze at the sky with him. “Why aren’t you watching?” He asks Louis. “Have you seen them before? They’re beautiful!” He says, laughing as another one sets alight in the dark abyss, rupturing before his very eyes. 

“I have something more beautiful I see everyday,” is the reply he gets. And—that. That’s the thing that makes him look away from the lights, faces Louis, his _love_. He breathes him in, now that he can, now that they’re away from everyone else.

“You say I’m a sap, but you don’t even realize just how worse you are,” Harry grins at Louis as he intertwines their fingers together.

Louis just grins at him in return their gazes locked, flesh tinted from the different colors of the fireworks.

Harry bumps their foreheads together, closes his eyes, and revels in the love surrounding him. “I’m glad that I’ll get to spend the whole year with you,” he says, trying to make sense of all the emotions thrumming through his body.

He waits for a reply, for a sweet laugh or a mischievous remark, but he gets nothing. When he opens his lids, he sees Louis’ pained face, troubled and scrunched up.

It scares him almost to death.

“Louis? What’s wrong?”

It’s happened before, he remembers. On the way back home, the tears in Louis’ eyes, his strange behavior. He doesn’t know what’s happening and there is nothing more frightening. 

Louis kisses him, Harry guesses to distract him, to make him stop worrying, and it works for the most part, he forgets about the strangeness in Louis and simply attributes it to his over zealous mind.

They welcome the new year the best way Harry could ever know how: together.

~*~

_In the endless sky we are but one._

 

**Author's Note:**

> This would probably be around 55k-70k. Comments and Kudos are always welcome. Hope you enjoyed!


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